


Who We Were, What We Became

by I_Dont_Like_I_Obsess



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Horror, Markiplier - Freeform, Mystery, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Tragedy, WKM?, Who Killed Markiplier?, Youtuber - Freeform, mature - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-07 01:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13423425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Dont_Like_I_Obsess/pseuds/I_Dont_Like_I_Obsess
Summary: A story is more than its ending, and tragic ones are often borne from hopeful beginnings. An exploration of the past mistakes and regrets that brought us to this outcome, told through the eyes of those who made them. Victims aren't always innocent. Rated M for mature themes. *Who Killed Markiplier?*





	1. A Domain of Evil, This Is

**A little background information. I loved the 'Who Killed Markiplier?' series. It was fantastic. The passion that was put into this project definitely showed through, with the production quality, the incredible writing, and the unique twists and turns along the way. I would be honored to be half the writer that Mark is. Seriously, Teamiplier deserves all the respect in the world. The roundest of applauses to them.**

**This is my take on the events that took place before and during the main series. The perspectives and snippets we don't get to see. There is obviously so much more to the people, these characters, that we don't get to see. I loved the thought of exploring them a bit further. If there are any other moments you feel as if I missed out on touching upon, you can always let me know. I may just go back as I think of new scenes and write them in. This was written all within about two days. I'm so glad I finally got it done for you to enjoy. All feedback is appreciated!**

**A/N- The butler provided an interesting choice, mostly because he was one of the most recent people to enter the house. Butlers are privy to secrets others are not, and they have practically a free reign of the house. Plus, Tyler did a great job acting him, in my opinion.**

* * *

The job description _had_ included the bit about it being for a mansion, but Benjamin wasn't quite prepared for the enormous size of the residence as he walked up to the place. His stride faltered, eyes skating across the mottled, gray stone walls and pathway leading up to the front steps in mild awe. You didn't see too many places like this. All in all, it came off as a lot more imposing and striking than he'd imagined.

An elegantly detailed wrought-iron gate was left open, welcoming him as he stepped past the threshold of the manor grounds. The interior was sure to be comfortably heated, a far-cry from the below freezing temperatures of the outside air. His breaths fogged before him, reminding him that stopping to stare would only make him late—and cold. His shoes clicked faintly against the stone with each step, carrying him closer to the front entrance of the manor.

He hadn't felt nervous until he stepped up the stone steps of the manor, the two decorative suits of armor standing at attention to either side of the wide, wooden door inlayed with glass. Everything looked so…polished. Refined. Much more sophisticated than Benjamin felt he came off as. His fingers twitched, but he forced them to relax. It would do no good to fall back on bad habits now.

He shook his head, chastising himself. _It won't do well to doubt yourself now. Come on, then. Knock, you fool._

A few sharp raps on the door with the knocker echoed into the foyer beyond, and he stepped back a pace, waiting as patiently as he could, considering the frigid air he was forced to stand in.

The answer came quickly, almost too quickly, as an older gentleman clad in traditional tailcoat and gloves opened the door. He was short, though most people were compared to Benjamin's own height, with a squirrel-ish face and bushy gray eyebrows. The older man gave him a squinted look, inspecting him closely, and opened the door wider.

"Hmm? My, quite a cold night for a visitor. What can we do for you?"

"Good evening." Benjamin greeted warmly, nodding his head respectfully. "My name is Benjamin, I'm here for the open position that-"

"Ah, yes, yes, come in, come in, my boy." He interrupted, gesturing into the manor and stepped backwards. "Watch the frame on your way in."

Frowning slightly in surprise, both by the breach in protocol of interrupting a guest, but also the strangely impatient demeanor of the butler as he gestured him to enter the manor, Benjamin did as told, ducking just a hair to step into the foyer.

Much like the exterior aesthetic of the household, the foyer was stunning in it's simple elegance. Floor tiles and walls a sterling white, with large mirrors facing each side of the room, and a lively decorative table in the middle displaying a fresh flower bouquet. While Benjamin examined the room around him, the butler closed off the entrance—neglecting to lock it, mind you—and gave a short bow by way of greeting.

"My apologies. I am Gerald, butler to the Iplier household. Allow me to take your coat."

"How do you do?" He said, shrugging off his coat and watching as Gerald hung it in a coat closet further in before returning to his side.

"Now, you are here for the position of butler, are you not?" The older man continued, and Benjamin nodded confidently. "Well, then, allow me to get you acquainted with the manor itself."

The younger man was surprised he hadn't been asked to show his credentials or resume to prove experience, but he supposed that would come later. His impression of the household so far led him to believe things wouldn't be as strict as his training had taught. And with that, Gerald guided him through the many hallways of the mansion.

It was bigger than he'd expected, both inside and out. There were two floors to the house, not counting the wine cellar in the basement, with hallways that criss-crossed the entirety, while other lead only to staff quarters or areas the house Master did not concern himself with.

All the while spouting information about the house itself as they walked, Gerald showed him the kitchen and he met the Chef who was busy making that day's lunch. The black-haired man had little to say to the butler or candidate, and looked rather anxious for them to be out of his kitchen. They hurried on quickly, lest they risk the chef's anger and be at the wrong end of one of those knives he was using.

Benjamin was fairly unimpressed with the courtyard located in the back of the manor. A pool, small in comparison to others he'd seen, a life-size chess board which looked as if it hadn't seen use in years, and a rather unkempt golf course below the main walkway. At least his duties would keep him mostly inside the manor, should he receive the position.

Gerald took him around for the better part of an hour, finally leading them back towards the kitchen to retrieve the Master's lunch for the day. The older man took the dumbwaiter and rolled it to the tiny elevator in one of the back hallways, used mainly for staff. Benjamin joined him, waiting patiently as they went up to the second floor.

The young man realized something, then. Gerald hadn't mentioned much of anything about the Master himself up to this point. Strange, he thought.

"The Master, what is he like?" Benjamin asked. He saw the sharp glance his way from the older butler, who shook his head in a defeated manner.

"A shell of what he once was. The Lady of the house ran off with another lover, leaving him alone here." There was a pause, as if he was collecting his thoughts. "The Master was once a good man, but now…"

The elevator dinged, cutting of whatever it was the man was about to say and Gerald opened the linked door to the hallway outside. Benjamin didn't ask any further about the issue, wondering just what had happened to create the event the older butler had just described. Shaking his head to rid of his wandering thoughts, he followed Gerald down the hallway to the large door at the end.

He knocked gently several times, and a faint 'Enter' could be heard from the other side. Benjamin saw Gerald give him a preparatory glance before opening the door, wheeling in the covered platter with the day's meal.

The house Master was nothing at all what he'd expected him to look like, though that seemed to be a recurring theme in this manor. Benjamin had conjured up images of an overweight, old, bitter husk of a man, but in place of that stood a middle-aged, average man of no more than his mid-thirties. He was rather handsome, but the faraway gaze in his eyes evidenced the previous drama that had racked the house, as Gerald had described. Seeing that he was not needed, Benjamin placed himself by the door, standing courteous at attention should anyone required anything of him.

"Good afternoon, Sir. The chef has prepared your lunch for you." Gerald said, placing the platter before the man seated at the table. He barely gave a glance down at the plate, eyes instead swiveling back up to stare out the window blankly.

The older butler apparently did not expect a response, and simply finished putting the components of the meal in front of the Master. Straightening up, he wheeled the dumbwaiter a few paces away. "Will there be anything else for you, Sir?"

There was a moments pause. "Please inform the chef I will not require dinner this evening."

"Of course, Sir."

And with no other parting comments from either man, Gerald made his way back towards the door where Benjamin stood. The young man couldn't be sure if the Master had even noticed him there. He fell into step beside Gerald as they exited the room, returning the dumbwaiter to the kitchen.

"Things haven't quite been the same since the Lady Celine left." The man said unprompted, sensing the burning questions Benjamin must have swimming around in his head. "She was much loved by the staff here. Very kind."

"If I may ask, what happened?" The question came very reluctantly, but Gerald didn't tell him to hold his tongue.

"We can only guess at the real reason, but some say the house itself is what caused all of this."

"The house?" Benjamin frowned, not following the butler's reasoning. He didn't quite see how the manor had any connection to an affair. "Was there a property dispute?"

"No, nothing like that. It's a bit hard to explain, but those of us that still remain all suspect there's something about this manor that's…off."

"…Off?"

Gerald sighed, seeing that the young man still wasn't understanding. "I'm sure you'll realize sooner rather than later. Now, let's go over your employment details and the like."

The young man perked up at hearing a confirmation of him receiving the position. It all felt a bit anticlimactic, as he'd been expecting a test of his knowledge or training, but he'd practically walked in and been handed a job.

Nonetheless, he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, and it was better than going hungry, so Benjamin followed Gerald without complaint.

* * *

It took a matter of a few more months before Gerald put in his own resignation, handing off the Head Butler position to Benjamin. That had been an unexpected turn of events, but in the months since being hired into the staff, the young man could see he was tired, past his prime. The old man had appeared very relieved as he left the manor for the final time, his lone briefcase in hand. He'd served loyally for years, and now he was afforded his due.

It wasn't until much after the fact that he began to wonder if old age hadn't been the only factor in Gerald's departure. The staff all appeared to envy Gerald in the days following. Of course, a life free of work was a fate everyone sought, Benjamin thought, but the envy seemed a bit extreme.

Gerald had trained him in the specific ways of the manor for long enough that Benjamin knew most of the ins and outs of the place; the family archives located in the library, the hatch installed in the wine cellar where they kept the best selection, and even the gates that lead onto the property from the very back of the garden. Being as astute as he was, the young man was able to memorize the layout of the house rather quickly, and used his spare time to wander the halls in an effort to familiarize himself with the individual rooms that lay in the less-travelled halls of the residence. He felt confident in his ability to perform.

Of course, the manor was one thing. The Master was another.

Since the first time he'd put himself before the man of the house, the man had barely acknowledged the butler was even there. He spoke clipped sentences, a few words at a time, and his gaze was always somewhere else. Sometimes he wondered if he even knew the younger man wasn't actually Gerald. Perhaps his sight was failing him, and no distinction could be made? That was certainly not something he'd bring up to the Master. That was stepping way out of line for a staff employee.

Benjamin chalked up most of the strange behaviors as the lingering aftermath of the Lady's departure. After all, he was taught not to think ill of his employers. He was a loyal man by nature, and it would do no good to suspect that something was at all wrong with the man.

He stayed mostly in his bedroom, calling only for meals and his letters. He received very few messages from the mail service, much less than what Benjamin would expect of a house Master. Benjamin barely had duties besides attending to the delivery of meals. It gave him plenty of time to himself, and was mostly stress-free.

So it came as a surprise to him when one day while delivering that morning's breakfast, the Master actually looked up at him, straight in the eyes, and frowned.

"And who might you be?" He inquired in a confused, but not unkind, tone. Benjamin stepped back a pace and bowed respectfully.

"My apologies, Sir. I am Benjamin, the Head Butler."

"Head Butler? And what of Gerald?"

The Master looked around the room, as if the squirrel-ish man was simply hiding fro his sight. Hiding the frown that wanted to spring to his face, Benjamin cleared his throat rather awkwardly.

"Sir, Gerald took his leave several months ago."

The Master's eyes narrowed, his head tilted to the side as he thought about the man's words. The butler was shocked to realize that in all this time he hadn't known his head butler had even left. The man must be more out of tune with reality than he realized, to not notice something as obvious as that.

"I see." The Master finally said slowly, eyes returning to inspect the younger man stood before him. Benjamin couldn't quite tell what impression he gave off, but he hoped it'd be a positive one. He'd hate to already get on the Master's bad side. After another moment, the man nodded and resumed his reverie out the window.

"Very well, then. Carry on."

Never missing a cue, Benjamin bowed again and wheeled the dumbwaiter back towards the bedroom door to take his leave. However, he couldn't shake the strange feeling that something was wrong here.

* * *

The words that Gerald had told him the day he was hired began to make sense.

_"…_ _those of us that still remain all suspect there's something about this manor that's…off."_

Benjamin hadn't grown aware of the presence until a great deal of time had passed, but he could finally put a name to it. The house itself seemed to loom. You could logically explain only so many strange noises, so many creepy feelings and headaches that spring out from nowhere.

Once, though he couldn't be sure he hadn't had a strange fit of sleepwalking in the middle of the day, he could have sworn he opened one of the doors to the second floor balcony and came out the other end on the first floor. He'd tried explaining it away, but eventually gave up and simply turned away. It hadn't happened since, but no amount of explanations would solve it.

The manor was old, of course, but he'd never been an overly superstitious fellow. The thought of ghosts didn't scare him, as they had yet to prove real.

But even a hardened will like his could be questioned, prodded, poked enough that he had to stop and consider something he couldn't explain was happening here. He'd become ill several times while employed at the manor, despite being as healthy as a bull the night previous.

The staff were reluctant to talk much about it at great length, but they all agreed on one thing: something wasn't right.

Even as he lay awake in his bed in the staff quarters, Benjamin felt like something was pressing down upon him, squeezing him, huddling close enough to make him feel random fits of claustrophobia. Of course, every time he stepped outside, most of the sensations seemed to dissipate, and he gave it no more concern than a bit of stir craziness from being inside too long.

What's more, the Master had begun to change, slowly, during the time he'd been employed there. He still remained in his bedroom most of the time, but now, it wasn't unusual to find him wandering the halls at odd hours, with seemingly no destination in mind and no purpose for being there. Hands clasped behind his robed back, the Master would scan the walls, the floors, the ceilings in a strangely measured way. As if he were searching for something the rest of them couldn't see.

Benjamin would never dream of questioning him as to what he was doing. This was his mansion, after all. It wasn't a butler's place to say what a man could do within his own home, but it was something he'd never seen before. A religious man might even called him possessed. It unnerved him, quite truthfully.

Something in the Master's eyes was…unnatural. It was the gaze of a broken man, one who desired no healing. Someone who'd long resigned themselves to their miserable fate.

Nonetheless, it was the butler's duty to uphold the manor and it's residents, no matter the affliction or state of mind, and the Master was his first priority. No matter how many times he may be brushed off or dismissed uncaringly, Benjamin would ensure that his Master's needs were taken care of.

* * *

Right after breakfast was served, the Master had desired a walk into town, rather out of the blue. Still, Benjamin felt that it was a sign of things beginning to turn for the better. The sun would do him a bit of good, the younger man thought to himself, seeing the pale, almost bluish, complexion and gaunt features.

Despite being a warm morning in spring, the man was bundled up rather cozy. A scarf was wrapped around his neck, almost up to his chin. Perhaps the bedroom let in a draft at night? Benjamin reminded himself to check with the maids and see if there were any noticeable cracks in the windows.

"I will return after lunch. Please inform Chef I will not require a midday meal." He said in parting, and the butler looked up to bid him a farewell. He paused, spotting what appeared to be a red rash on the side of the Master's neck. The scarf covered most of it, but a small bit protruded above the fabric. He went to remark on it, but the man was gone before Benjamin could recover himself.

Thinking no more on the man's short departure, knowing that the Master would ask for assistance should he need it, Benjamin went to clean up the remains of the breakfast. The empty plate and used silverware were placed carefully back onto the dumbwaiter, and the stray crumbs left on the table were wiped and cleaned away.

All the while, the butler couldn't help but let his eyes wander. He'd noticed there was a distinct clutter, whereas he knew the Master was normally very neat and orderly. It was strange to see small, crumpled balls of paper strewn about the waste bin, or the discarded robe flung carelessly across the bed's comforter. A loosened tie had been draped on the vanity's edge post, hanging limply down the side of the mirror.

The closet was ajar a few inches and, ever the compulsive servant he was, Benjamin finished cleaning the remains of the meal before going to close it.

Something inside caught his eye, and he paused. Then, deciding there was no harm in looking in the man's closet, he slid the door open a few more inches, illuminating more of the inside.

Benjamin frowned at the short length of rope tied in the middle of the clothing rack, the rest of the hangers pushed to the side to make room. A few inches dangled down from where the rope was knotted on the pole, and ended abruptly where it had obviously been cut with a knife of some kind.

He fingered the rope with a gloved hand, trying to discern what it's purpose had been. Then he stepped backwards, shaking his head. The Master's business was his own. A butler had no right to go snooping through his personal effects like this.

He returned to the dumbwaiter and walked towards the bedroom door. The master bathroom was located to his left, and his wandering eyes drifted to it. The sight of a full bathtub inside, and the large puddle of water all over the tiled floor, soaking into the edge of the carpet nearest him, made him stop.

The rope had been odd, but this was weird indeed. The tub was filled to overflowing, the water's height barely a centimeter below the tub's lip. There didn't appear to be anything else out of place or wrong, but Benjamin's gut instinct told him something had somehow gone wrong here.

Perhaps the Master had fallen? The water all over the floor pointed towards such a conclusion, but he couldn't be sure. He didn't appear to be favoring any of his limbs, but all that bundling could hide quite a lot.

Taking a careful step inside, Benjamin removed his glove and rolled up the sleeve of his white shirt. He reached down below the water, accidentally causing more water to spill over the edge, wetting his black shoes, and unplugged the drain. The water slowly began to recede, and he dried off with the nearest towel.

Benjamin left the room with a most intense uneasiness. This manor had terrible secrets, he'd come to learn. The people living in it did too, apparently.

* * *

**A/N- I can't imagine Mark was able to kill himself so many times without any sort of sign left behind. Someone had to have noticed something.**


	2. Just the Tip of the Iceberg

**A/N- Mark mentioned in his 'I EXPLAIN EVERYTHING' livestream that the chef having a family was' canon.' Granted, he joked that they were all dolls living with him in his trailer, but I like to think there's more to our lovable, surly chef than we may know.**

* * *

The loud music pulsed through the walls of the manor, leaving the Chef unable to concentrate on preparing the appetizers that Mark had requested he prepare. Scowling as a howl of laughter drowned out a few seconds of the music, most likely from that rowdy Colonel, he walked over to the sink and rinsed off the knife in his hand.

This party was out of the blue, and not something he expected of Mark. The man had been a recluse for years. Barely even came out of the master bedroom upstairs, let alone invited guests over. To host a gathering like this with no explanation as to it's purpose was confusing and downright weird. Very out of character for the man.

Chef shook his head, dismissing his employer from his mind. At least he didn't stare vacantly out the windows, wandering the halls in that creepy fashion he used to do. Anything was preferable to that, and it did seem like he'd regained some of the clarity and easy-going nature that had been lost since Celine had left him. Chef didn't dislike Mark exactly, but they weren't friends. He was his employer and the one who wrote his checks, nothing more.

At least this occasion allowed him to flex his love for cooking to a degree that the day-to-day humdrum of life in the manor hadn't. What many people didn't understand was that cooking was as much an art as it was an application. A great deal of technical skill went into the process, admittedly, but ultimately the result depended largely on the creativity and ingenuity of the chef himself. And Chef prided himself on being able to craft the very best meals for others to enjoy.

Another thump against the walls caused him to glare in the direction the others were causing a ruckus. Unfortunately for him, the extreme drunkenness of those attending would negate any worthwhile feedback he would've otherwise received for his hard work. They probably wouldn't even taste it, their minds too clouded with alcohol to understand what he put in to make the food taste so great.

His talents were wasted here, his time as well. The years he'd spent cooking for these damned people had all been for nothing. Before Mark had taken possession of the manor after his parents' death, things hadn't been quite as bad.

Mark's father had invited him to work for them, impressed at his talent in the kitchen. Back then, there had been social gatherings nearly every week, the heads of the house playing a large role in the community of the city. Well-known families and guests had been invited from far away places, and the house had thrived. For a chef, there had been much to do, many meals to serve, and there'd been a certain amount of enjoyment. Of course, he'd been much younger back then, more hopeful of what his future held.

He had expected this place to be a stepping stone into a satisfying and lengthy career as a tv chef, hosting his own world-renowned cooking show. But each rejection letter stung a little harder, each declined phone call to a network bit a little deeper, until he'd all but given up on his dream of making it big.

So here he remained, in a decaying mansion with no other aspirations to follow. Though, he had to admit, his lot in life wasn't all that bad. Who knew if he'd ever have met his wife, had he gone on to host that show? Would he ever have had his son, the light of his life? And when he compared the two, he'd give up a dozen network deals to live happily with the little family all his own. They were worth so much more.

The song in the other room ended, changing over to the next, and the attendees gave a hearty cheer. Chef finished garnishing the last of the appetizer, before picking up the tray and heading towards the door to serve it.

_Take it one day at a time._

* * *

The minute Chef had left the crime scene, he went to go check on his family. He'd been gone less than ten minutes before all this murder business—he glanced curiously at the sky through the nearest window, wondering if even _thinking_ the word would conjure up lightning, but nothing happened—had developed before his eyes. But with the knowledge that there was a murderer among them—still no lightning—Chef's priority was making sure the both of them were safe.

"Stay in the room, and don't open for anyone but me." He'd instructed them after that, promising to send them meals throughout the day. His wife, Eileen, had nodded, no trace of fear in her eyes. She'd always been brave, sure of herself no matter the circumstance, and this time was no different. Holding their son closer to her torso, she nodded, that steely determination to keep them safe in her eyes.

Satisfied that his family would remain ok, Chef returned to the main hallways of the manor. In times like these, it was good that the staff quarters were placed at the back end of the house, hidden away down rarely-travelled hallways most of the guests either ignored or weren't aware of. It would ensure no one could get to his family so easily.

Straightening his white jacket, he returned to his customary domain, spotting the detective leaning against the counter. His eyes traveled the countertops, trying to appear as casual as possible, but he knew that he was looking for any evidence that this crime had been committed by the surly chef. Well, he wasn't going to make things easy for the dick, that was for sure.

"What do you want?" Chef asked scornfully, grabbing his ladle and holding it with a tight grip. It wasn't raised threateningly, but if the sour tone and expression on his face gave anything away, it would make the threat clear enough without having to do so.

The detective narrowed his eyes, sauntering between his two feet and he straightened to regard the man. "Mind telling me where you were between the hours of midnight and 2 am this morning, or should I just take your confession now?"

It stood on very clear grounds that neither man liked the other. Chef didn't take too kindly to being accused of such a crime in his own kitchen, and the little display at the crime scene that morning hadn't done much to make a good impression of the detective. The haste in which he took control of the investigation, brushing off the Benjamin's suggestions to call the proper authorities, made him all the more suspicious in Chef's eyes.

"Watch what you say in here, prick. This here is my kitchen, and my home. You've got no right to be throwing around those accusations."

"Oh-ho, I've got every right!" The detective laughed boisterously, reaching into his coat for the ridiculous badge he had flashed him the last time. "You see this? This gives me all the rights in the world, because you're one of the prime suspects in Mark's murder. Now start talking, cookie. I want answers."

Chef frowned at all the different faces in the photos shown to him. He really didn't like this man. "It's _Chef,_ and I'll tell you exactly where I was." He gestured to the rest of the kitchen with his ladle. "I was here until 1 am, then I retired to my room."

The detective's expression never wavered from doubtful as he folded up the badge, and he scoffed softly. "Anyone who can prove that?"

"My wife and son, but I won't allow you anywhere near them."

The man's gaze steeled, and he pointed accusingly at the chef. "That's impeding on an official investigation, and I'll have you arrested."

Chef smirked, eyeing the unimpressive detective maliciously. I'd be so easy to just manhandle him out of the kitchen, but he didn't want his family suffering any repercussions. That didn't mean he wouldn't push back, just a little. "Oh yeah? I don't see a pair of handcuffs on you, so just try it."

That stopped him short, but before he could find a retort, Chef continued, waving him dismissively away. "After everything that's been going on, like hell I'd let anyone I don't trust near my family. For all I know, you're the murderer. The only way you'd get to them is over my dead body."

The detective must have realized he'd pushed a bit too far, since he slowly took a step back, but eyed him with caution. "I'm not through with you yet, _cookie._ "

"I've given you my alibi, now get out of my kitchen!"

The detective said nothing more, but threw him a parting glare as he ducked down the hall. Chef cursed his retreating form, moving to prepare a light lunch to bring to his family later, despite it being just after 8 in the morning. There wouldn't be much work today anyways. No one was particularly in the mood to eat.

* * *

Chef hadn't been prepared for the sudden introduction of magic and the _supernatural_ to this investigation of murder. He'd already been on edge knowing there was a killer amongst them, while his family was close by, but now it wasn't even a real person doing the killing? How was he supposed to protect Eileen and his son from that?

Celine returning from out of nowhere had him reeling as well. Where in the hell had she come from? And how on earth had she so conveniently known _when_ to get there right in the middle of all of this? All these questions with no answers. It was too much for a simple man like him.

He'd made sure the gates were locked, so no one could possibly leave or come in. That was another question he'd probably never get the answer to. How'd she even get in? _Forget it,_ Chef thought with a weary shake of his head, _it isn't worth the breath to ask._

The lady was upstairs with most of the others now, doing god knows what with the attorney fellow who'd been reluctantly helping the detective. He couldn't fault them for being dragged into this, seeing as the detective had practically forced them to be his new partner. He was willing to bet they hadn't signed up for a seance either, but here they were, waiting for whatever Celine hoped to accomplish with her little ritual.

Chef had secreted himself away to the staff quarters once more, reassuring Eileen that he was just fine. The yelling and gunshots earlier in the afternoon were sure to have carried down the hallways enough for them to hear. Best not to leave her worried for his own safety.

He patted his son on the head, ruffling the boy's hair with affection. Jacob stared up at him with wide eyes, but he smiled warmly to calm him down. "We'll be just fine, kiddo. I promise."

The soothing words were enough for him to settle, and Chef left them again, swearing to come back soon with some answers to everything going on. He was startled by the sound of shouting upstairs, and rushed to return to where the Seer had disappeared with the attorney.

* * *

**A/N- I couldn't come up with much more than this for the Chef. His is a complicated character, and it wasn't easy writing for him.**


	3. Keep Your Enemies Close

**A/N- Surely the effects of having lost so many partners would have left lasting impressions on the detective.**

* * *

Abe tipped the whiskey bottle back, ignoring the burning sensation at the back of his throat as the spirit went down. Letting out a quiet 'ahh,' he set the nearly empty bottle onto his disaster of a desk. Not for the first time, he noticed it had fallen into such disarray, but the private detective could never work up the motivation or care to do something about it.

Only the single desk lamp in the corner and the moonlight streaming in through the window behind him illuminated the room. A cold draft chilled the back of his neck, and he shivered.

His bloodshot eyes swept the cluttered surface, skimming over stray leafs of paper, napkins with circular coffee stains, sticky notes attached to books and files and reports of all kinds. A medical examiner's note that a family believed to be falsified sat neglected in the corner of the desk, not having been touched for a few days at least. Henry had promised to take a look at it to help with this case.

Henry…Feeling the stab of pain in his gut return, Abe reached for the whiskey again and took a larger swig. The lukewarm alcohol could help him forget the funeral just that morning.

Yet another partner, gone. It was getting harder to remember where the number stood at now. 17? Or 18? He thought it was 18, but this drunk, it was hard to tell for sure. Far too many, regardless. He'd buried too many partners. Too many friends. Another picture he'd have to add to the growing collection.

Some would think each time it would get a little easier to cope with, each death affecting him a little less, but you never really got used to seeing someone you knew with the life gone from their eyes. Sometimes he could still see the dead stare, the unblinking lids as they looked at him accusingly.

With the amount of times someone close to him lost their life, it was also becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself it wasn't his fault. Abe could only pretend for so long that he knew what he was doing, that he felt sure of every decision he made.

People who lived around here wouldn't work with him, all too familiar with the string of dead partners he left in his wake and the unconventional methods he used to get the job done. Only those investigators who weren't from around here took jobs with him anymore, those who didn't know his reputation. And as the whispered gossip continued to spread, the radius in which people avoided him was getting bigger.

He was a lonely man, nothing but a half-empty whiskey bottle to keep him company. He wasn't sure if he'd even take another job, wondering how quickly he could starve to death should he just decide to lock himself in his apartment and waste away. At this point Abe couldn't quite tell if it was his own conscious or just the alcohol talking.

Letting out a single, humorless laugh, Abe raised the bottle by the neck in a mock toast. _Here's to me,_ he thought morosely, letting more of the alcohol flow down his gullet.

* * *

Mark's letter that came the following morning was exactly the thing he needed. Even the raging hangover lingering in his head couldn't prevent the wide smile from spreading across his lips. The contents were fairly to the point, but then again, whenever the guy felt he couldn't trust someone in his own home, he'd called Abe. Short and to the point was all that was required.

Overhanging the excitement at having another assignment he felt confident we couldn't botch, looking into the backgrounds of a chef and a butler, was the relief at hearing from his old friend again. The man had practically disappeared off the map for awhile, ignoring Abe's letters and never leaving the house. It was so unlike his usual character, remembering the outgoing and slightly overbearing fellow as he'd been in college. What had happened? And why wait so long before contacting him?

Several months ago, feeling like he owed it to himself to find answers, since Mark himself wouldn't be providing any, he'd started an investigation of his own. If something had happened, he wanted to know. Abe didn't like the idea of losing another friend and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

After a few weeks of searching and piecing the clues together, the trail came up cold. No matter how far he took things, how deep he dug, he couldn't figure out what had happened to make the man a shut-in. He'd done everything but go there himself and ask Mark what was going on. But if this cold shoulder was anything to go on, he doubted they'd let him inside.

Still, after all of his worry and all this time, it appeared Mark had gotten over whatever funk had been troubling him. Mark's favor didn't take too long at all. The information had been stuffed away in a few file folders to show to the man once he got there. He'd packed his bags a few days before the event and had travelled down by train to see the man face to face. Words on paper weren't enough to dispel all of his concerns, but man's eyes didn't lie.

Now he stood, waiting in the parlor with his pipe in his hands. Eyes scanning the fancy furniture and frivolous decorations on shelves and tables. _This place hasn't changed much at all,_ he thought to himself, standing straighter when the sound of footsteps reached his ears.

The robed man himself rounded the corner, that twinkle of mischief shining brightly in his eyes and a grin to match it. "Abe!" He greeted jovially, holding out his hand to shake.

"Mark!" The detective responded, eagerly taking the hand offered and returning the firm grip. "Good to see you." And truly it was. Seeing Mark so relaxed and put together, nothing at all like the behavior he'd exhibited over the past few years, was the most reassuring piece of evidence he could ask for. It was like they were still back in college, the promise of fun times in every smile Mark quirked.

The robed man stepped back and gestured in a placating manner. "Great to see you as well. Look, I'll cut to the chase. Chef, butler…good?" His eyebrows rose hopefully, expecting to hear good news.

Abe nodded thoughtfully, remembering the information from his files. Mark never asked before to look at official reports and the like on cases like this, trusting the Abe's word over all other things, but the detective prided himself on doing a job properly, bringing the files anyway. Blinking, he replied to Mark's question.

"Chef's an asshole, but he's clean." There was a pause, then continued. "Uh, let's see…the butler's a new guy, _also_ an asshole, but he's also clean."

Satisfied by the answer, Mark's grin widened, and he nodded appreciatively. "I wouldn't have it any other way." Then, he swept his arm back behind him, gesturing to the hallway beyond. "Now, enough talk of business. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Come, let's have ourselves a drink and catch up on the years apart, friend."

"Sounds like a plan to me." The detective followed the man down the hall, looking forward to that promised drink.

* * *

Failure hung heavy on the detective's heart the moment he saw the motionless figure lying on the floor. Mere hours before they'd been having the time of their life, celebrating just as they had back in college together. The sting of being able to see his friend again after so many years, only to have him lying dead—no, murdered, he thought bitterly to himself—was a hurt too intense to explain. But in keeping with his nature, Abe forced the pain and vulnerability down into his gut and plastered a more comfortable emotion to the forefront: anger.

He mentally ticked through the guests in the house; the Butler, who had a clean record, save for a short history of mild drug use years previously, didn't jump out at him as the person responsible. What would he have against Mark? Perhaps he felt under-appreciated? It wasn't uncommon for employees to feel their deeds weren't being recognized by their superiors. It was a rather weak motive, but the detective knew others had killed for less.

The chef was a surly son of a bitch, but his record had been practically spotless. Of course, the string of rejections from tv networks could have been stewing in the man for years. All that anger had to be let out somehow, right? He definitely had access to the nearest usable weapons, though a more thorough examination of the body would tell him what exactly had killed his friend.

The mayor had been a friend of Mark's since they were young, but there was plenty in between the things Abe knew about Damien that could cause the outwardly charming man to snap. A disagreement gone wrong? An outstanding debt? Or a stolen lover? Wealth and fame tended to bring with it scandal and cover-ups, and the detective was sure there was some sort of history between the two he hadn't yet uncovered.

That eccentric Colonel was the most obvious suspect in all of this. The man carried around a pistol or two everywhere he went! In the few memories he could remember of the night before, Abe recalled noticing that William had tried to keep his distance from Mark whenever possible. There had been a distinct animosity between the two, more on the Colonel's part than anything, but it had definitely been there. Abe had never liked him much to begin with.

He'd all but missed the attorney standing there beside the body, looking just as shell-shocked as the rest of the men who came running at his exclamation of murder. Letting his anger lead the way, he found his hand shooting out to grab at the attorney's robe. "What the hell happened here? Who's in charge around here?"

The question slipped out by accident, and he quickly covered it up by pointing to his friend laying dead between them. "Trick question: that guy! And he's dead now which makes _me_ in charge."

If there was a murderer somewhere in this house then Abe was going to find the bastard who killed his friend and bring him to justice. He wasn't going to lose this friend without a fight. He owed it to Mark to find his killer.

The dozens of questions he had for the attorney were met with blank stares, and it was likely they were still in shock from the discovery. Perhaps it was their first time seeing a dead body. Or perhaps it was guilt for putting it there in the first place. But like the butler said, the body was cold, and he'd seen the attorney at the end of the hallway, walking down the stairs to enter the parlor. It was unlikely they were the perpetrator. At least, for now. Further evidence may prove otherwise. His angry questions were interrupted by the Chef.

"Prove you're a real _dick._ " He accused, his finger jabbing into his torso. Frustrated at the delay, he dug into his white robe to find the badge he always carried with him. It was a pretty common thing, people not believing he was an actual detective, and it grated his nerves each time it happened.

"Here's my badge, asshole." Flashing the silver insignia at the man, swinging it over to show the attorney as well, hoping it would encourage them to comply with the investigation. Unfortunately, the movement unhooked the loop holding the carded photo set in place, and the stream of pictures descended nearly to the floor.

Mortified, but hiding it successfully, Abe began gathering the pictures together again. "Those are my old partners. Don't ask me about them."

Realizing the statement, coupled with the suspiciously long visual list of his previous partners, had very damning connotations, he hurried to amend the statement, feeling that telling the truth in this instance may be more worthwhile than keeping secrets from these people. Perhaps it would instill a bit of trust towards him, which would help in the investigation later on.

"Fine! I'll tell you. Each one of them died, each death more tragic than the last." His voice threatened to waver, but he pressed on, hoping not a speck of guilt showed on his face. That would only be counterintuitive. "A few of them even died in ironically hilarious ways…"

There was a few moments of awkward silence, and Abe cursed inwardly. None of this was turning out well, but he had to troop forward. The problem was, he doubted he could handle an investigation of this magnitude by himself. He knew his limits, and having this many people to question and ensure would stay in the manor would become problematic. He was just one man, after all. He'd need a partner, but no one else here was trained for the job.

His eyes fixed on the attorney. They were at least familiar with the law, and he had few other options.

"Hey, you look like you're up to the task. You're my new partner." He pointed to the attorney, who shook their head hastily. Abe laughed, figuring they weren't sure if they were cut out for the job. But he was an excellent judge of character, and they seemed adequate enough for what he was looking for. Not to mention, he'd be able to keep a close eye on the person who'd discovered the body. Best to keep your enemies close, after all.

* * *

Abe paced around the small study, the cork board littered with all the clues he could compile on the opposite wall. His eyes glanced over at the intersecting red strings and sticky notes plastered all over it's surface. Sheets of paper and newspaper clippings were cut out crudely and tacked along the edges. Certain bits of important information had been circled in a red pen.

A typewriter sat in the center of the desk, crumpled pieces of paper surrounding it. His trusty bottle of whiskey sat close by, nearly empty. Encyclopedias and volumes detailing the history of the manor sat open and bookmarked all over the place.

Things just weren't adding up. It almost painfully obvious that the Colonel was the culprit, but Abe still felt like something was missing. Some _key_ piece of evidence that he had yet to find.

Celine's sudden arrival to the manor had thrown a loop through things, but had also begun to answer many questions he'd had over the years. William's reaction especially. Abe had never seen the man as gentle or caring than at that moment he'd addressed Celine.

While going through Mark's bedroom upstairs, he'd stumbled upon a very detailed letter, written by Celine herself, explaining that the marriage wasn't working out and she'd decided to leave. That had been years ago, right about the time Mark stopped responding to all letters and communications. Abe felt a spike of inadequacy, frustrated that something as obvious as that had been the cause of all of his friend's strange behavior. So glaringly obvious, and he hadn't been able to figure it out. Some detective he was.

The board was filled mostly with the information he'd obtained about Celine and William, his instinct telling him they were somehow involved in all this. Nothing pointed to Celine specifically, but she was too close to both the victim and the prime suspect to not have some sort of important knowledge on the matter.

The woman herself was upstairs preparing for whatever hocus pocus bologna she wanted to try out. Apparently it had to wait until tonight, however, and so most of the guests had dispersed to occupy themselves until she was ready. Communicating with the dead? This was insanity. His prediction had been right, it wasn't a simple candlestick-in-the-library mystery, but this was not what he'd been referring to.

He'd all but eliminated the butler, the chef, and Damien from his list of suspects. He'd come to the conclusion that the attorney was innocent as well, seeing their dedication to solving this mystery like himself. All that left was Celine and William. He hadn't gotten a chance to truly question the woman yet, but she holed herself up in that room, and Damien was rather protective of her. He doubted the mayor would let him go accusing her of murder.

The answers were right within his reach, Abe could practically feel it. Before he could think on the matter any further, he heard Celine calling for the attorney, signaling that the seance was about to begin. He pushed off from leaning against the desk, intent to wait outside and make sure that he didn't lose yet another partner. He wouldn't fail another.

* * *

The sound of the gunshot echoed painfully around the small hallway of the manor, Abe's ears ringing from the noise a moment before a searing pain spread from his chest. The Colonel's face was staring at him in something close to shock, bewilderment. Abe couldn't look away, even as the strength drained from his limbs. The weight of the gun in his own fingers became too much, and he sagged to the floor, dropping the weapon with a clatter.

His body was numb, and he barely felt the wall at his back. Black dots appeared in the corners of his vision, blurring as he tried looking up at the man who'd shot him. The Colonel's eyes swept back and forth across his body. Abe looked down, the red patch of blood seeping through the wound and into his vest. It felt so hot against this skin, his insides growing cold.

Looking up again, barely able to make out distinct features, he saw the attorney reach for the Colonel's gun. Panicking, Abe tried to stand then, failing that, attempted to shout at them to get away. No sound emerged, only strangled croaks. The man was too dangerous to approach but he couldn't warn them. Nothing came out. Sitting in the rapidly widening puddle of his own blood, the detective was useless, helpless, and a failure.

Everything appeared to be moving in slow motion, the attorney struggling with the man over the gun in his hands, who pushed back out of panic himself. Abe's focus shifted in and out, but he saw a brief flicker of fear in both of their faces.

A second gunshot rang, the close proximity and his failing senses causing him temporary deafness. The world began to spin. But in the confusion, he watched helplessly as the attorney stumbled back, a quickly spreading red stain on their own chest. Then, in a morbidly stunning display, their feet shuffled backwards until their back hit the wooden railing, pitching their weakened body over it and down into the foyer below.

Abe tried understanding the words he knew the Colonel was speaking, seeing his lips move, but it was all a garbled, unclear mess. His eyes were failing him, the lids becoming too heavy to keep open, but he swore he saw the man try to reach for the fallen attorney, his partner, just before they'd disappeared over the edge.

The broken detective, knowing he'd failed yet another partner who trusted him with their safety, let out a shuttering breath, not bothering to fill his lungs again with precious oxygen. Perhaps it was better this way. This curse of his could finally target someone who deserved it, and may it end with him too.

The last thing he could see was the Colonel falling to his knees, his head in his hands.

* * *

**A/N- I'm convinced the detective's quicks were also some sort of defense mechanism. I mean, he truly did want to solve the murder. I saw him as someone who tried everything he could to protect those he cared for, but it didn't amount to anything in the end.**


	4. Lightning Is the Sky's Business

**A/N- We didn't have much to go on regarding the groundskeeper, so I did my best to include an interesting perspective.**

* * *

"Just try and catch me!"

George heard the small boy's voice cry from somewhere beyond his sight. He looked up, squinting under his hat to try seeking the source of the noise. A deep frown marked his face, hoping that the boys would have the good sense to stay away from the garden this time. He'd had to fix enough of the flower plots in one week that he could've replanted the whole garden all over again.

Boyish laughing and fast thumping steps on the stone walkway grew closer and closer, until the three usual culprits sprinted around the corner and directly past where he knelt in the dirt. He held up his hands, drawing breath to chastise the three children, but they'd already hurtled themselves over the edge of the stone wall and into the shaded patches of dirt behind it.

"Hey! I've told you brats before, I won't tell you again!" He shouted after them, knowing they were only half listening. "Stay out of the plants!"

Predictably, they ignored his cries and continued their path of torment through the trees and shrubs planted further in. Shaking his head with a defeated sigh, George stood from where he'd been working and made his way back towards the manor.

He'd had quite enough of the lads. All this destruction they left in their wake was making his job twice as difficult to finish, and he didn't have the patience to replant another dozen roses because of them. The house Master was soon to get an earful from him yet again.

Even better, the Lady of the House emerged from the manor a few minutes later, meeting him halfway down the stone steps. She saw his irritated expression and sighed. "They're at it again, are they?"

"Yes, Madam, and if you'd be so kind as to reign those little monsters in so I could finish my task, I'd rightly appreciate it." He replied with evident scorn. She didn't appear to take offense, which he was glad for. He held no grudge against her for her son and his friends' behavior, but he would only tolerate so much.

Face set in determined lines, she nodded once. "Then if you'll excuse me, I'd better find those three and give their backsides a proper smack." Despite the harsh tone, the ghost of a smile showed through, and she walked past him towards the garden.

George knew she was too kind a woman to carry out the threat, no doubt thinking she'd settle on a good talking to to straighten the three of them out. Those boys may be spoiled, but a lecture from the Lady herself was a feared enough punishment to suffice. She could make even him wince from guilt, without ever having done anything wrong himself.

Satisfied that he'd be spared from the boys' antics for at least the rest of the afternoon, George returned to the flower patch to complete the row he'd been tending that morning. He spotted a few trampled tulips further down where the boys had passed, and scowled.

The sun beat hard down on him, and within the hour he'd finished patting down the soil, brushing the stray dirt from his gloves. He'd have to dig up the ruined flowers and plant new ones, but first he would take a break, thinking a tall glass of water would do him good.

Suddenly, a shadow fell across him, and he looked up to find three young, sullen faces, and a pleased house Lady standing just behind them, her hands clasped behind her back.

"I believe these three have something they'd like to say to you, George." She started smugly, her words making it very clear that they'd better start talking.

William, his trousers covered in dirt and glasses slightly skewed on his nose, stared at his shoes glumly. The groundskeeper knew him well enough to figure that he'd provoked some sort of contest between the three, perhaps a race, which had prompted the destructive trample through the garden. He was always trying to best Mark and Damien in some form or another, unable to resist an adventure. He was the brainchild behind most of their antics.

Mark, the troublemaker George was most often stuck with, was trying to hide a satisfied smirk from his mother. He doubted the boy felt very bad for having ruined some of the flower plots, leading the older man to believe he'd won whatever challenge had been placed on him. That, or he found it funny that his friends were being chastised by his mother. They boy was much too cocky for his own good.

Damien kept stealing glances at his two friends. He was always worried about keeping the peace between the other boys. George had an inkling Damien had been trying to prevent this outcome from occurring, but the others had proved to be too much for him to handle on his own, blindly rushing off to best one another. If anyone had the least amount of blame for the ruined garden, it was him. And, predictably, he was the first one to apologize for what had happened.

"Sorry, Mister George." The genuine remorse very clear in his voice. "We should have been more careful."

"That you should have." George replied severely, doing it more for the sake of teaching them a lesson than out of anger. They were just boys, after all, no matter how frustrating it may be. He'd been just a lad too, once.

A few more seconds of silence prompted the Lady to smack the two remaining children on the back of their heads when they made no move to apologize. "Well? Out with it." Her voice reflected another warning.

"Sorry…" They grumbled quietly, but that wasn't good enough for her.

"Louder, now, so we can hear."

"Sorry, Mister George." They said in unison, obviously unhappy at having to do this. Finally, the older man nodded deeply.

"Do I need to make myself any clearer about trampling through the flower beds?" He inquired, and all three shook their heads hastily. "Good, now off you go, and I'd better not catch you doing it again!" He shooed them away, watching as they bounded off in another direction.

The Lady smiled tiredly after them, shaking her head. "No matter how much I try, I doubt those boys will be tamed."

"They're certainly not ones to follow the rules, are they?"

She chuckled, straightening the hat shielding her face from the sun. "No, but I suppose neither am I." Her mischievous grin made him roll his eyes dramatically.

"A good day to you, George. The garden looks beautiful, by the way." And with that, she walked her way back towards the manor, her shoes clicking evenly against the stone path.

* * *

George was quite surprised to see several different automobiles roll up the manor's drive. It had been years since this number of people had all been invited over at the same time. Having been weeding the front flower bed, his back aching with both old age and prolonged slouching in the dirt, he'd been able to get a good look at everyone who arrived that evening.

That detective fellow had arrived first, the ridiculous investigator's hat on his head. The groundskeeper didn't know all that much about him, as he hadn't been on one the Master's childhood friends growing up, but the man had visited enough times to be recognizable.

Next came Damien. The smartly-dressed city mayor stepped out from the automobile, waving gratefully to the driver before straightening out his suit. He spotted the groundskeeper in the dirt further away and smiled with an enthusiastic nod. It seemed he was ecstatic to be here for this occasion, or delighted to see the house Master again. If George recalled, it had been some time since his last visit.

The last guests to arrive were William, ever the eccentric, and an unfamiliar individual whom George had never seen before. Perhaps they were a friend of someone in attendance, but the old man largely ignored this new person in favor of watching the military man keenly.

It was no secret that Mark had held a great hatred over this particular guest for years. To see him here now was…unusual indeed. Staying away from the manor and keeping to himself in the shed out back kept him from being in the loop on most gossip, but this rumor in particular was well known, spanning back years previous.

The mystery guest entered the house first after being introduced to the Colonel, and it was then that William noticed George in the bushes. He lifted his chin, as if convincing himself that he was supposed to be here, before following into the manor. George went back to his tilling, the first worms of doubt beginning to squirm in the pit of his stomach.

Had the house Master been anyone other than Mark, the boy he'd watched grow up over the years, George wouldn't have payed much concern to the evening's unexpected event. But he'd been around long enough to know what kind of man the boy had become, and just how this place could change a person.

Things spelled out to be quite terrible, he thought to himself.

* * *

At the sound of a gunshot ringing inside the house, George's head shot up from the hole he'd been digging for the water pipe. A few moments later, loud cracks of lightning flashed the sky overhead. George ducked instinctively, hiding underneath the lamp post and tree that covered him. It was perhaps the dozenth time that day it had happened, but each one left him more worried.

There'd been no sign of a storm up to that point, and not a drop of rain had fallen that day, but all this lightning from out of nowhere pointed to one thing: that damned house. He'd made great pains to stay away from going inside, seen what it did to people who stayed too long. George peered with resignation through some of the windows, unable to see anyone moving on this side of the manor.

Things had quickly gotten out of hand, if the ruckus inside was anything to go by. He'd heard yelling of all kinds, both in and out of the house. If he were hearing any of the conversation correctly, there'd been a murder. Mark himself, specifically. A terrible thing indeed, but it wasn't the first tragedy he'd witnessed in this place. There would be many more, whether it be with this family or the next. The house did what it wanted, and there wasn't a damn thing to be done about it.

George had come to understand that despite his best efforts to stay away from everything going on, things may just drag him in whether he liked it or not. Even as he finished the thought, another few cracks of lightning thundered overhead, and the older man slowly made the sign of the cross, a silent prayer to whoever was above to protect him from the fate of those inside.


	5. Footnote In a Much Larger Mystery

**A/N- I found myself wondering, what was Mark's and Celine's marriage like? I wanted to explore the event that triggered the whole story to begin with.**

* * *

No matter how many times she traversed the hallways of the manor, the empty stillness and the chill that never seemed to leave despite the interior heating were more than enough to unnerve her. It wasn't as if the place was abandoned, though admittedly the size of the residence was intended for many more people than what it housed now. In the daytime, it was grating, but at night it turned downright creepy.

Celine lifted her head an inch higher, forging past the discomfort as she headed towards the family archives, a chamber candle burning steadily in her hand to light the way. Turning on the hallway lights may very well wake some of the house staff, or even Mark himself, which she wanted to avoid if at all possible. He wasn't aware of her late-night escapades, and she'd prefer to keep it that way.

Her green, floor-length nightgown was made of a thin material, not enough to prevent the chill from seeping into her skin and causing her to shiver. The flame on the candle flickered occasional from stray drafts through the windows. One could almost imagine the house itself was breathing, but Celine shook the ridiculous thought off.

The hallways were dark, and there were no staff awake at this ungodly hour. Celine herself had to question what exactly she was doing so late at night, but then pushed forward regardless. There was something wrong with this house, but she couldn't figure out exactly what.

The library sat at the very western edge of the manor, and she carefully opened one of the wooden, double doors by it's details, iron handle. The hinges gave a small squeak of protest, and Celine winced, looking behind her should there be anyone who heard the noise. After a few seconds of silence, she pressed on, slipping in between the doors and closing it behind her.

The library had become a safe haven of sorts, as she could lose herself in the books in an effort to shake the uneasy feeling that blanketed you once inside this place. However, the main library was not what she was here for this night. Ignoring the looming bookshelves she was so familiar with, the light of the candle illuminated the path to the nearly-hidden side door at the back of the room. The family archives, records of the masters of the mansion, dating back decades.

Access to this room wasn't exactly restricted, considering she was the lady of the house. However, when Mark had questioned her interest in the information it contained, he'd simply brushed her concerns aside.

"There is something about this manor-" She'd said, but didn't get to finish the thought.

"It's that wayward over-imagination of yours getting to you again, Darling. Think nothing more of it. Come, let us meet Nathaniel and his lovely wife in the front room for some tea." And with a dismissive wave of his hand, he'd dragged her off to visit with the pair of friends she had barely any interest in seeing.

That hadn't been the only time he disregarded her concerns over the strange, uneasy feelings she had when inside the house. Each time, he didn't believe her, simply chalking it up to nerves and her imagination. But she refused to be dissuaded.

So, she'd resorted to finding out the information on her own, without Mark's knowledge. She doubted he was hiding anything from her, but that he simply didn't believe anything was wrong. It was one of the few things she disliked about her husband, but it didn't appear as if he'd change in the near future. Love meant accepting the flaws of your partner, but it didn't mean you had to like it necessarily.

The door to the archives was nondescript, just a plain wood door set in the corner of the library, almost unseen unless you were looking for it. Celine approached and jimmied the handle until it stuttered open, obviously not seeing much use. There was a sconce set on the wall, and she lit the few candles that still remained. The small room lit up a bit more, and she set her own chamber candle on the single table inside.

Two low-laying bookshelves lined the edge of the room, thick and dusty volumes filling the spaces. Her previous visits had been less fruitful, as she'd had to figure out the best starting point for her research. Some of the volumes were out of order, and she'd had to do a bit of organization beforehand. Now, however, she had a place to pick back up from.

While she browsed the book for any relevant information, her mind wandered to many a topic. Mark was always so dismissive about what Celine believed. He'd lived in this house for years, he'd say, and nothing ever felt out of place. However, Celine couldn't quite shake the sensation of being watched, as if there was someone standing behind you at all times. Even now, she dared a glance over her shoulder, just in case.

By contrast, William was much more receptive to her concerns. The numerous times he came to visit, she'd mentioned the feeling, and she was surprised to find him so talkative about it.

"Oh, this damned house has always been that way." He'd once told her while Mark was locked in his study for business, nodding as she'd explained her unease. "Maybe decades of scandal and mistrust start to affect even the house. No mansion has a clean slate, so to speak. Who knows what's gone on here before we've lived in it?"

It was relieving, to finally feel that her suspicions were validated, especially from one with close connections to the place itself. It was part of the reason her and William had grown so close. His stories were intriguing, and he was a valuable asset when doing her research.

He was also rather handsome. Something she hadn't noticed previously.

Belatedly, Celine realized she'd drifted so far into her own mind, she'd stopped reading the book in front of her. Backtracking to before she began to drift in her thoughts, her finger skimmed the lines, looking for signs of any clues as to what was going on with this manor.

* * *

Brushing hastily beneath her eyes to rid the last of the tears, Celine took a shuttering breath, her feet quickening down the hall. This was all too much, it was all just so burdening, and he couldn't understand. Behind her, she could hear Mark open the bedroom door in a rush, her name being shouted. Ignoring the desperation and interlaced anger in his tone, she turned the corner to head towards the library. It was her safe haven, the place she could escape from all this madness.

While en route, she realized that that's exactly where Mark expected her to go. The last person she wanted to see at that moment was him, and so at the next corner, Celine hooked a sharp right and changed her destination to something a bit more unpredictable. Mark's shouts continued in the background, but as the seconds wore on, his voice grew fainter and fainter, until they were simply muffled noise.

Taking the hallway that would lead directly to the courtyard outside, she pushed past the glass door and let it shut with a snap behind her. It was late evening, the sky stuck between a deep purple and dark blue that told her dusk was approaching. The air was still warm, but carried with it the promise of wind and possibly rain.

Her feet carried her down the stone steps and to the lower pathway below. She passed the golf course, ignoring it and hastening her steps towards the pathway to the garden. The gardeners would be inside at this time, no one to disturb her.

The stone railings to each side of the walkway stopped abruptly at the edge of the garden, instead replaced by leafy hedges that served the same purpose. The trees that lined the sides of the path and the interior of the garden provided enough cover for her to begin to relax.

The uncomfortable feeling of being squeezed, a constant background pressure she still couldn't explain, released as soon as she had stepped foot outside of the manor itself, but now that she was surrounded by nature and it's beauty, the last vestiges seemed to shake themselves off, leaving her feeling clean. She sighed in relief, finding a stone bench further down the path. Taking a seat, her head fell into her hands.

Her face felt itchy, the tears having dried but the feeling of having cried still lingering. Celine let out another shuddering breath, then straightened her back and forced away the overwhelming emotions.

This fight in particular had gotten under Celine's skin. Not that the previous ones hadn't, but this one just helped to solidify her own suspicions. Things weren't as well as she'd suspected. The first year or two of their marriage had seen few disagreements. Of course, she'd been younger and more naive back then, more open to letting people sway her desires, but things had been good.

Suddenly, it was like neither of them knew the other person. Had they changed so much in the years together? When had it happened? _How_ had it happened? Celine was certain the house had something to do with it, but that wasn't really something she could explain to her husband, who'd had enough of her 'ramblings about this godforsaken house.'

He'd called her crazy. Mad. Without her senses. Perhaps she was.

 _No!_ She thought to herself harshly, her hands tightening into fists against her head. _I'm anything but crazy. I know what I feel._

The sound of footsteps nearby snapped her head up, where she saw William tentatively approaching her. He looked concerned, as if she'd get up and bite him, but she didn't and said nothing as he slowly eased into the spot beside her.

"Well now, what's got you looking so grim?" He inquired quietly, keeping a respectful distance away, but close enough to let her know he was there.

Celine sighed, shaking her head slowly. She couldn't find the words to explain for some time. Had it been anyone else asking, she'd have smiled that pretty facade and insisted she were fine. But William…she trusted him, and he'd become a close friend of hers over the past few years. She'd tell him practically anything.

"It's Mark. He's…changed." The Colonel tilted his head, silently asking her to elaborate, so she did. "I fear something about him has altered, slowly, over time. I don't know what it is exactly but…"

She paused, waiting for the usual remark questioning her sanity from Mark, then remembered that this was William, and he'd listen without doubting her, no matter what. "It may sound…crazy…but I'm afraid this house is affecting him in some way. Some _unnatural_ way that I can't explain or prove."

He was silent for several moments, nodding slowly to himself. "Something's been off about the old chap, that's for certain." He muttered, then turned to her to continue. "I've been itching to say something to you for awhile, but Mark's reminded me more than once that I'm simply a guest here. That meddling in others' affairs has landed me in trouble before." That last bit was said with barely constrained irritation.

"What do you mean?" She asked, frowning in confusion.

"Mark's been taking whatever's been frustrating him out on you. The damn idiot's got no right, seeing as you've done nothing against him." He gestured before him impatiently. "I've told him as much, but all he does is blow me off, telling me to mind my own business and leave matters to you and himself."

"I see." Celine replied, feeling a bit of comfort to know that William was on her side in all this. Not that she doubted it, but hearing it aloud still helped. However, she didn't want him getting the wrong idea. "I didn't tell you all this so you could fix it for me, you know. I appreciate you trying to help, but he is somewhat right. Mark and I can handle this ourselves."

William glanced at her in concern. "I know you can, I just…I want to make sure you're alright." Then, added as an afterthought. "Both of you, of course."

Celine leaned over and placed a hand on his knee, squeezing gently with a small smile. "I know. It's wonderful to have someone who cares about us as you do. Perhaps that's all we need to figure things out."

William had stared down at her hand when she touched him, then covered it with his own, squeezing back in response. "I trust you know what you're doing." He replied, all the conviction evident in his tone.

Celine honestly didn't know quite what she was doing, nor how she'd fix her marriage with Mark. That was all a bit over her head at the moment. How did one counteract the effects of whatever this mansion was doing to them? That was beyond her control, but perhaps she just hadn't been looking in the right place all this time. She'd have to do a bit more research on the matter.

Even so, the temporary relief of having a friend who understood was just as uplifting, and she leaned forward to place a chaste kiss, barely lasting the length of a heartbeat, to William's lips, finally standing and extracting her hand from his. "Thank you, William. I think I'll see myself inside. Good evening."

He said nothing more, but she could feel his gentle gaze at her back as she walked away, bringing a blush to her lips. How it came to be there, she'd never be able to admit. After all, she was a married woman. Such thoughts were the makings of a scandal, indeed.

* * *

Things had gone so terribly wrong. Perhaps it was all Celine's fault in the end, but her actions had been driven by a desperation for love, and the realization that whatever change had come over Mark was progressing. Things were only getting worse, and she saw no solution. It had all come to a head, but this wasn't how it was supposed to have turned out.

The letter detailing that she'd decided to leave was to be placed on the desk in the Master bedroom, waiting for him to find after he came back from his work in the study. Any given day, he'd be stuck in there for hours, doing god knows what. She'd made great pains to be out of the manor before he even realized she'd gone.

Only Gerald knew of her intentions, having been informed of her departure the night before. To Celine's surprise, he'd been unfazed by her announcement, and had merely wished her luck in whatever ventures she pursued afterwards. Of course, she had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly where, or whom to be more accurate, she'd be going to. There wasn't much that got past Gerald, after all. He knew the house and it's secrets like the back of his hand.

Everything had been planned ahead, but the execution had been faulty. Mark had excused himself to his study, as usual. Celine waited five minutes, ensuring he was well and truly away from the Master bedroom by that time, and retrieved the suitcase she'd hidden under the bed. All of the things she'd need had been packed. There was nothing left for her here now.

Crossing to her dresser, she felt underneath her petticoats for the folded paper she'd prepared several days in advance. It was still crisp and folded neatly. She let out a breath, her heart beating faster in her chest. Carefully placing the paper on the table, she squared her shoulders and pushed through the door. She didn't feel the need to linger for too long, taking in the sight of the hallways.

Something must have caused Mark to return to the bedroom in the time after she left the letter. Some wildly incomprehensible oversight that Celine had failed to think of. She had no way of knowing that Mark had left his reading glasses in the bedroom, and had returned to retrieve them immediately after she departed the room. The fact remained that something had obviously gone wrong in her plan, because she was now stopped in the front parlor, Mark clutching the letter in his hand, eyes searching hers for some meaning from all this.

"Why." Was all he said, phrased more as a statement than a question. She'd expected to see anger, but his pupils were drowned with hurt and confusion, an all together more difficult mix to deal with. Celine swallowed the remorse that threatened to make her apologize, forcing her expression to remain blank.

"I can't do this anymore, Mark." Her voice came out surprisingly even for all the emotional turmoil that was happening within her.

There were several moments of tense silence, neither person quite sure what to say next. He was the one who broke first.

"Celine, you can't."

"I can, Mark. I am. Please step aside." She tightened the grip on her suitcase, but the words tumbled out of his mouth now, flowing with nothing stopping them.

"After everything we've been through, you leave?" He took a step closer, but she kept her distance by doing the same behind her. "Have I not provided you everything you've desired? Has it not been enough? What more could there be for me to give you?"

"Mark-"

He waved away the word, not finished. " _Years_ , we've loved each other, Celine. Does that not mean anything to you? If this is because of some spat, then stay and we can work out a solution. Is that not what lovers do? Marriage means working through the bad times and coming out better, healed."

His words began to turn desperate, and despite her attempts at maintaining distance, Mark closed the space between them and gripped both of her shoulders, staring down into her face. The letter lay partially crumpled and forgotten on the floor behind him. Celine turned her face away, unable to cope with the amount of pain in his expression.

"It's more than that. There is no solution to this problem." She whispered.

"What problem? Tell me what it is that has you packing up your things." His hands slid upwards to cradle either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. "Anything can be fixed-"

"I don't…love you anymore." She forced the words through her lips, now fully committed to her actions. There was no going back from this, no way she could change her mind now. It was out there, and he knew. She was amazed she'd held back the tears that threatened to spill, and she hoped her face was still as blank as it had started out being. Better to look as if she were sure of herself.

Mark froze, uncomprehending the words that she spoke. "You…" He started, but was unable to complete the thought. Celine tore herself from his grasp, using the gap in his attention to briskly walk towards the door. She was only a few feet from being able to reach the handle, but Mark recovered in time to grab her forearm, holding her back.

"Celine, darling…" He no longer tried to hold back the pain in his voice. "Stay. I love you, please stay."

"Mark. Let me go. It's too late for this."

He wasn't listening, however, and simply turned her to look at him. "It's never too late. Give me time. Tell me how I need to change, and I'll do it. I'd do anything for you. I don't understand what you think I've done wrong, though I'm by all means no saint, but _tell_ me how to fix this, Celine."

He was rambling on at this point, and as he continued, his words grew more desperate and indirect. "How will I go on without you? You are my everything. How will our friends go on? Nathaniel, Alice, they will miss you dearly. Damien, and even William-"

At the mention of his name, Celine couldn't prevent the damning flinch that accompanied it, subconsciously horrified that he'd found out the truth simply by saying his name. Her eyes flickered away from his gaze in defense, unable to bear looking him in the face of such a dangerous secret. Of course, Mark had no way of knowing up to that point about the relationship she'd formed outside of her marriage with the Colonel, but Celine's behavior in that split second had been the only evidence he needed.

As close as they were to each other, she knew he saw the spark of guilt in her eyes as soon as it formed, and the unintentional shame that briefly flickered across her face. Mark was no fool, she knew, and that fact was solidified when his grip on her forearm tightened painfully, a heavy silence following after.

Out of the corner of her eye she observed that his expression, so filled with pain and sorrow a moment ago, was now terrifyingly blank. Eyes empty, piercing and deep.

"…How long?" The question was asked so quietly, she barely heard. Still, while she knew in her heart she loved William, there was still guilt mixed in at the thought of turning her back to the man she'd been married to for so long. Celine couldn't bring herself to answer, until he jerked her arm to gain her attention.

" _How long!?"_ He yelled, and the sudden outburst ripped the answer from her.

"A year." She replied evenly, without emotion. Her eyes slowly raised to meet his again, the false confidence allowing her to straighten her shoulders again in the face of his anger.

Mark released her arm from his grip, turning in agitation towards the decorative table that stood in the center of the front parlor. Then, with a roar of anger, he snatched the vase holding a lovely bouquet of flowers and hurled it as hard as he could against the wall, causing her to yelp from surprise and slight fear at the display of aggression. The glass pieces shattered into a hundred pieces, spilling dirt and petals everywhere, and she took a step back, closer towards the door, her knuckles white with strength against the suitcase handle.

" _That BASTARD!"_ Mark cried, turning to the nearest mirror and punching it straight in the middle. The glass fractured all across it, and the sharpest pieces where his fist had contacted dug into his skin, causing a steady stream of blood to begin dripping from the wound and down the wall.

He huffed out uneven, heavy breaths, not seeming to feel the pain from his injured hand. Celine stood, not wanting him to think she'd always been a liar. Why she wanted him to know that, she wasn't sure, but a small part of her still cared for Mark. She didn't want to see him dig himself deeper into this downward spiral he was creating.

"Mark, there _was_ a time when I loved you, but-"

" _Enough!"_ He screamed, both in anguish and the newfound hatred for the man he once considered as close as a brother. Celine closed her eyes, deciding that to remain further would only worsen the damage. Picking up the suitcase once more, she faced the door once more and bid him a simple farewell. There was no reply, only the heavy pants of Mark's exertion as he stared bitterly into the broken mirror.

Without looking back, she left, both a feeling of relief and of dread falling on her shoulders. The aftermath of this would seal all of their fates, though she had no way of knowing that.

* * *

It hit her like a stone, the dread and uneasiness that hadn't marked her for years. Despite all the time since this feeling last overcame her, it was as familiar to her as the day she'd left that mansion. It stopped her dead in her tracks, and she knew that something terrible had befallen that manor.

The years since leaving Mark had seen her become older, wiser. She knew things now that the younger Celine could never have comprehended. Her eyes had been opened to a world not her own, and it gave her the answers she'd desired since marrying Mark. However, it also left her with many more questions that she couldn't quite solve.

The Seer turned her head North, as if the mansion was drawing her in even from miles away. The people milling around the town square showed no sign of feeling like something was off, that something had changed in the past few minutes. No one payed her any mind either, leaving her staring off into the sky, looking for something she couldn't see.

Another feeling of dread pulsed intensely through her, and she closed her eyes in an effort to ward it away. Something was wrong. That house, something had happened, and she may be the only one with enough knowledge on the matter to figure out what.

As much as the thought unnerved her, going back to the place she'd been so happy to escape from before, the temptation and thrill of finally knowing what evil wrought itself in that house was too great. Celine also had no desire to see Mark, or anyone else who resided there come to a terrible fate. Despite the rocky relationship they'd shared, seeing them hurt wasn't appealing to her.

She glanced around, finding a stationary taxi driver to the side of the road, reading a newspaper. She dug into her purse for some change and headed towards his car, abandoning the original errands she'd set out to do that day. There were more important matters to attend to.

* * *

Celine was certain, this house contained an intelligent evil. Exactly what it was would probably never be known, but it was definitely sentient. The district attorney's experience in the 'otherworld,' as Celine had coined the plane of existence she couldn't quite yet explain, had proved as much. They'd shaken with fear, but still come back from their encounter with information.

Things were much worse than she'd imagined. The subtle changes she'd witness through Mark so many years ago were accelerated, affecting these people in a matter of days, or even hours. The tension and evident fear she felt rippling through Damien, the uncertain panic that gripped the attorney, and Abe's determination to figure out the mystery at hand, Celine could feel them all.

She herself was a bit apprehensive as to how to fix everything that had gone wrong. The missing body was even more confusing, but there was nothing to be done about that. Her experience in matters of the supernatural was extensive however, and she had a wide range of methods to try in order to figure it out. All she needed now was some time alone.

"I-I need to stay with Celine." Damien said suddenly, defensive in the face of the suspicious detective. Celine turned to him, slightly insulted he thought she was that much of a damsel in distress. She was perfectly capable of handling herself.

"I don't need help, especially from you." She replied in a clipped tone, hoping her anger would discourage him from pressing. Damien had always been courteous, it was in his nature, but there were times when matters forced him to press past what was normally acceptable behavior. It seemed she had pushed him past that point now.

" _Our friend is dead!"_ He shouted, and the fear in his eyes matched the intensity of her anger. She looked away, slightly ashamed at having spoken to him in that fashion. Damien sighed, the grip on his cane tightening. "I'm sorry. I just need answers to all of this." He gestured in the direction of the room Celine had emerged from earlier. "I already lost one friend today…I don't want to lose another."

Swallowing past the frustration, Celine worked out a compromise, hoping to end the matter and get on with her work. The more time they wasted talking, the worse events would grow to become. "Fine, but I need to stay here."

"Fine with me." He insisted, relieved that she'd at least let him remain with her.

The detective dismissively agreed to what they'd said, happy to continue his own investigation of the tragic events that had taken place here. Celine turned, hearing Damien follow behind her as she returned to the room she'd taken the attorney to. Damien closed the door behind them, and she sat back in her chair.

"What are you planning to do?" He asked skeptically. Unlike William, Damien had only just found out about Celine's affinity for the supernatural and occult. He was still coming to grips with the idea, and had no clue as to what all of the tarot cards and odd novelties were supposed to accomplish. He simply didn't believe in the stuff.

Celine ignored the slight undertone of doubt in his question, and prepared her board for another session. "The district attorney didn't go in far enough to the other side, but I know there are answers there. We just need to try again."

Damien placed his cane against the wall and sat opposite her, eyeing the board between them with uncertainty. "Are you sure this is safe?"

Rolling her eyes, the Seer finished splitting the deck of cards and began laying them out in another reading. "Damien, nothing is completely safe when it comes to the unexplained. But I've done this for years. I know what I'm getting into, and which precautions to take."

She stared pointedly at him when he opened his mouth to interject, knowing he was going to remark on the fact that he wanted her to stay safe, or something of that nature. He steeled his jaw and nodded minutely, accepting what she said with conviction. The fact that he was conceding to her having more knowledge in this situation was a start, but he'd have to be a bit more believing if this was going to work.

"I need you to relax. Now that you've decided to accompany me, you'll need to participate. Having an unanchored person in the same room as this can leave you open to danger." She explained, putting the last of the tarot cards down. "Take my hands."

Damien did as told, eyes still uncertain but trusting that she knew what she was doing. They joined hands across the table, and Celine breathed in a deep breath.

"Close your eyes, and don't open them until I say."

Again, he did as told and, satisfied that he would follow her instructions, Celine followed suit, concentrating on the heavy air around them, reaching out with her consciousness to take hold of that energy and use it to guide her where she was going. This time around, she'd see for herself what the attorney had experienced on the other side.

The usual feeling of floating grew deeper and deeper. The air in the small room grew colder, and when she opened her eyes again, she found herself in a pitch-black plane of existence. No colors or light of any kind could be found. After a moment, a fuzzy outline materialized to mark her consciousness truly entering this otherworld. The ground manifested beneath her feet, and she wandered a few paces in the direction before her.

"Mark." She called, her voice reverberating throughout the cavern of darkness. The uneasiness persisted, a faint work at the back of her mind, always pushing, pressing gently. She ignored it, suddenly whipping around to look at the new presence that had entered the domain. Shocked, the faint, fuzzy form of Damien appeared a distance away.

"What is this place, Celine?" He questioned, cowering when the sound of his own voice echoed at the loud volume.

She wondered how on earth he'd followed her here, having intended for him to remain in the physical plane while she traversed this otherworld, but he had somehow found his way here by himself. He must have followed her own energy, guided by the familiar essence and found himself here. She would worry about that later. Time here was short, and she had to find Mark.

"Mark, show yourself. I know you're in here somewhere." She called again, her gaze searching left and right for any sign of her previous lover.

Another sweep to her left suddenly revealed him standing some distance away. He was clad in his customary red robe, his back turned to the both of them. He gave no indication he'd heard her speak.

Relieved at having found him, Celine briskly walked towards him. "Mark, I need your help. Something terrible has happened and-"

"You weren't supposed to come back." He interrupted flatly, still facing away from them. His voice carried over the echo, however, clearly distinguishable to the two former friends that stood a ways behind him.

Her head shook in frustration. "Mark, what happened between us was years ago. I've moved on. It's unimportant now. The others-"

"Unimportant?"

The question came cuttingly, shock evident even in the single word. Celine shared a concerned glance with Damien, who'd remained quiet up to that point.

"I don't think you understand. It was everything."

At a loss for words, Celine watched in growing horror as Mark finally turned to regard them. His figure was much more distinct, refined, in that dark space than their own manifestations, and what they saw was gruesome.

It was definitely Mark, but his body was horribly discolored, disfigured. What appeared to be gunshot wounds in the side of his head and through the front of his robe still retained the blood. Dozens of stab wounds littered his body, the flesh left uncovered a motley of blues and blacks and yellows of old bruises.

"Dear God!" Damien cried out in disgust, taking a step backwards. He'd never seen such a terrible sight, nor did he think he ever would again. Celine tried looking away, but was mesmerized by the sheer gruesomeness of it all. She covered her mouth with one hand, unable to say much more. Mark ignored their repulsion, his stare fixed on Celine.

"None of this was meant for you, Celine. Despite everything you and…the _Colonel_ have done to me, I never intended for you to get caught up in the mess. I still love you, after all."

The last bit was said almost in a chuckle, as if it all were some horrible joke.

"This was for him, and him alone. But you've dug yourself too deep." He shook his head sadly. "I can't continue to protect you selfishly."

"What are you going on about?" She cried, watching as he turned away again. None of what he was saying made any sense. It was as if he were taking blame for the events that had transpired. "Someone killed you, Mark."

"Indeed, the Colonel did. I made sure of it."

Damien spoke up for the first time, having no idea what was going on. "Talk sense, Mark. The Colonel? There's no way he-"

"Enough of this talk." He swung his head around to stare at them, a small smile creeping up his lips. "I wasn't sure what I should do with you. Neither of you had been accounted for. But I've decided."

In the span of a moment, Celine had gone from being confused as to what was unfolding, to feeling the most intense pain in her head she'd ever experienced. A cry of pain was ripped from her lips, and she crumpled to the ground, hands clutching at her head in a desperate attempt to ward off whatever was assaulting her.

"Celine!" Damien shouted in panic, dropping to the ground beside her. She could faintly feel his hands as they tried steadying her by her shoulders, but she squirmed and writhed in his grasp, eyes shut painfully tight as the mental assault grew more and more painful.

She screamed, something inside her head snapping. The agonizing sensation of being torn apart, bit by bit, lasted for several seconds but felt like years, then began to fade to a much more manageable throbbing over time. The chill had intensified, but she no longer felt her arms or legs. Or her face.

Blinking through her panic, she spotted Damien staring at her in horror…with Celine's own body cradled limply in his arms.

"Celine…" He whispered, eyes flickering back and forth between her and the lifeless form of flesh he was still holding onto. Damien flinched, seeing her body's eyes open, revealing an empty black iris. The body smiled sadistically, pushing itself up from Damien's arms to stand by itself. He scrambled backwards, too shocked by what was happening to speak.

Celine's body stretched it's arms, as if getting used to the sensation of being in a physical form. She began to understand that this was whatever resided in the house with them all these years. This was the darkness that had stalked them, watched them, and drove them mad. It now had a form, and it swung it's gaze to stare at her.

Mark stepped forward, addressing the Darkness, as Celine could only describe it as. "Give me his body."

The Darkness regarded Mark for a moment, then shifted it's piercing, oppressive gaze towards Damien. The sheer danger the creature exuded, even in such a deceptively harmless body, was enough to freeze him in place. The creature reached out a hand, and then Celine watched as Damien screamed, writhed and twitched in a similar fashion as she had moments earlier.

She reached out a red-colored hand, as if to try to stop what was happened, but she held no power here any longer. The hold on her body had been severed completely. She was simply a floating manifestation in this abyss of blackness, and that's all she'd remain. The Darkness had been much stronger than she'd thought, no doubt holding back it's power, and unleashing it all at once to render her useless. There was nothing she could do for Damien to prevent the same thing from happening to him, and it was her fault.

His screaming lasted some minutes, as if the Darkness was prolonging his suffering simply for the sake of doing so. Then, a blue blur began to manifest beside her, and Celine knew it to be Damien, or what was left of him anyways.

The screaming died away, his body going limp, and the blue blur took more distinction, until Damien's expression of pain could be discerned. Celine inched closer to him, trying to comfort him, but her red red simply passed right through him. There was no use in trying, and so Celine gave up.

A gasp caught her attention, and she came to realize that Mark was gone. Instead, Damien's body was moving, and she noticed the features molded slowly to become much more similar to Mark's than those of Damien.

"Finally…" She heard Mark mutter through Damien's lips, a relieved smile curling the corners.

And then he fell. The floor where he had been, indistinguishable from the black void that surrounded them all, simply gave way or disappeared entirely, because Mark dropped down below them and continued falling without even a scream, until he was lost from sight.

Celine swung her eyes back to where her body had been standing, but it too was gone. The quiet was oppressive. The emptiness squeezed in closer to the two blurred shapes, and Celine found themselves truly alone.

* * *

**A/N- This was my take on what happened in that room with Celine and Damien. Who knows what really happened, but I'm sure it was something along these lines. Maybe.**


	6. Can't We Resolve This Amicably?

**A/N- Damien was my favorite character, but admittedly, he was mostly on the sidelines when it came to the heart of the matter. Still, a bit of backstory doesn't ever hurt. Also, the picture mentioned is the left-most one shown when we enter Mark's master bedroom with the detective. I'm sure you'd know that already though.**

* * *

"Another toast! To our fine and _dashing_ new mayor." Mark raised his glass, smirking between then three friends with mirth. "May he still find time in his busy new schedule to remember those who care about him for more than his title."

Damien shook his head good-naturedly, chuckling as he followed Mark and William in perhaps the sixth toast of the day. They tipped back their glasses and drank with great fervor. As one, they swallowed the spirits and shot each other amused glances when the burn hit their stomachs.

"I promise to think of you fondly when I raise your taxes." Damien joked, starting another bout of laughter.

It was late into the evening, and there was nowhere else he'd rather be than right here, enjoying a good time with his very dearest friends. The city election had been far and away a victory for Damien, and he was in good spirits. That morning he'd been sworn into office, getting used to the feel of the city hall and it's many offices. He'd met countless council members and important figures of the community. Tomorrow the true work would begin, but he'd spent the time that day to familiarize himself with the expectations of his new duties.

Mark, of course, had invited them all over to his manor. The man was always looking for a reason to celebrate and his friend's promotion was a rather important occasion after all. Not that it was a surprise to any of the three.

Damien had been working for years to try improving the community, focusing primarily on the corrupt politicians that had a grip over the local court houses. Judges were being paid off to give lighter sentences or pardons for favors, and the man hadn't rested until he'd uncovered all the scandals to the public.

Of course, his exposure of the corruption hadn't made him a popular figure among most of the wealthy. They'd been the ones with their hands deep in the judges' pockets, but he was something of a small-time hero for the people. No one wanted the dangerous criminals back into society any sooner than what was fairly decided by the community, and Damien had been the one to ensure that.

When he'd decided that running for mayor would be the best use of his skills to improve his friends' lives, the people had readily rallied around his cause, making for a rather uneventful and easy race.

The mayor smiled warmly at his two friends, listening to Mark tell a story of when they were younger, only half listening. Of course, he wouldn't have made it this far without his two biggest supports. Mark had always pressed him to take the big risks, to expose the money-hungry judges for what they were. And William would never let him forget that he was doing the right thing. Even when the pressure for him to back away had risen to a dangerous degree, Will had been there to keep him steady.

These two were the dearest friends Damien could have hoped for, and he wouldn't trade them for the world. More like brothers than anything. William and Mark had always been closer, but he felt honored just to be included in the first place. His adolescent days had been filled with many a great adventure thanks to the two older boys.

"Well, Damien?" William asked, drawing the his attention away from his pleasant and wandering thoughts. He raised his brows, waiting for the Colonel to continue. "What do you think your first decree as mayor will be?"

"Hmm, I hadn't thought about it, actually." He answered truthfully. His main focus had been getting to this position in the first place. Then, grinning with delight, he held up his glass in a mock salute. "My first decree will be…more whiskey!"

This set the others into a raucous fit of laughter again, and Damien cherished the sound, wanting the night to continue without end.

Of course, every day must end at some point, and they'd all drunk themselves sleepy before long. Damien woke the following morning with pounding heads and a bemused smile. He'd prepared himself for the day, gratefully taking the glass of water and medicine left for him by the butler, and made his way to the dining room downstairs.

William and Mark were both awake, waiting for him. They each shared a meaningful glance, knowing the others must also be feeling the effects of too much alcohol. Mark gestured for him to sit, and he did.

Over breakfast, they shared more stories. The companionship struck Damien's heart again, and he knew that it would take a great deal to come between the three of them. As children, they'd been nearly inseparable. Now as adults, despite life often times making it difficult to visit each other as frequently, that bond hadn't wavered.

Mark had surprised him afterward, when he waved them to the courtyard in back, and a photographer was busy setting up his camera. "We must capture this memory with a picture." He'd explained, and they'd posed in front of the stone wall delightfully.

Before he could be late for his first day as city mayor, Damien had bid them a good day. Only after promising to return to visit before forgetting who they were, of course. As he descended the stone steps of the manor entrance, moving off towards where his driver waited, Damien thought to himself that things couldn't possibly have turned out better.

* * *

Neither William nor Mark had sent him any sort of reply to his letters. It had been a few days already since he'd heard of the dramatic scene at the manor, and only then from the butler of the house, Gerald, when he'd shown up one day for a surprise visit.

"I apologize, but the Master has requested we bar all guests at the moment, Sir." Gerald had bowed in apology, looking quite tired and uncomfortable. He'd briefly explained the situation when it became apparent Damien was desperate to know if Mark was alright. He'd stood there, shocked and without words. He had half a mind to come barging in there, knocking on Mark's door and demanding he tell him what was going on, but perhaps a bit of space was what he needed most at the moment.

Knowing the butler was only following his orders, Damien nodded respectfully and stepped back. "I'll write him, then, and pray for his wellbeing."

Gerald had followed suit, an expression of relief marking his face. He wondered if the butler had been thankful that Damien hadn't simply stormed inside, causing a scene. It brought little amusement at that moment, however, to visualize himself forcing his way inside. Finally, Gerald spoke again. "A good day to you, sir."

Damien had returned home confused and worried. He wondered how Mark must be holding up, and had immediately set out on a letter asking if there was anything the man could do for his friend, sending it with his secretary that afternoon. The return letter most likely wouldn't reach him until the following morning, but the sooner the better.

William was also his dear friend, however, and he'd written him one as well, asking what on earth was going on and to give him his side of the story so Damien could better understand. A deep feeling of anxiety settled in his stomach, knowing this couldn't bode well for the men's friendship. Surely there was some reasoning behind all of this, some justification? And what of Celine? What was she thinking during this time of turmoil?

The Colonel lived quite a bit further away than Mark, and so he couldn't drop by and check on him in person. Perhaps another time, but the city also needed him. The mayor couldn't afford to go neglecting his duties purely for selfish reasons, and he reluctantly concluded that drowning his worries in work would distract him long enough for them to answer his letters.

Though, no response ever reached his office desk at the city hall. Two weeks came and went and still no word from either William or Mark. He tried again, this time marking it with the official city seal. Perhaps it had simply fallen through the cracks the first time around. Again, he sent out letters to both men.

Neither replied.

Even as a child, he'd had the terrible habit of worrying too much, and a good bit of that still lingered as an adult. His two dearest friends weren't on speaking terms and no doubt in a great deal of emotional distress, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try to help. That's what friends did, after all. In times of duress, when perhaps they weren't thinking right, friends knocked some sense into those blinded by emotion.

With the upcoming city elections, Damien was busy almost nonstop, continuing to work on the city's problems while simultaneously working to guarantee his re-election. The people had seemed to love him enough as mayor to vote him in three more times, and he hoped they would see fit to do so again.

This, however, meant that he had little time for personal matters, and wasn't able to go out there and face the two men himself. As much as he wanted to, he owed the city his dedication. Still, the hurt he felt in his heart for having to neglect the two people most dear to him was heavy. A part of him knew he'd regret it later.

* * *

Damien had nearly missed the envelope from Mark entirely, having so much paperwork on his desk one thing was barely distinguishable from another. Only the bright red wax stamped with the Iplier family crest made it stand out at all from official financial reports and civil requests from the community. His days were busy after all, and his eyes weren't as sharp after hours of staring at mindless drivel from the council members.

Upon discovering it, he'd eagerly snatched it up, almost nicking his finger with the letter opener. It contained an invitation to a night of poker. Along with the yellowed parchment was a much smaller note written in that delicate script of Mark's, bringing a smile to Damien's face.

_"_ _I hope you haven't forgotten those who care about you for more than your title._

_Mark"_

Damien needed no time to think further on his decision. He'd called for his secretary then, asking her to clear out his schedule for the following Friday. The city would be fine without him for an evening. It had been some time since the last time he took some time for himself. Some relaxation with good friends over some good alcohol was long overdue, he thought.

There was someone he was sure Mark would love to meet, and perhaps this would be the best way to introduce them to him. His newly-hired District Attorney was just the sort of person Mark had always enjoyed conversing with. He was sure they two of them would become very good friends, if only they'd meet.

Yes, that's what he'd do. Despite there being no mention on bringing a plus one, he was sure Mark wouldn't mind his presumptuous decision. Surely the word of a childhood friend would ease some of the offense if Mark truly were displeased about it.

Finding much more reason to look forward to the rest of his day, Damien sat back further in his chair and let out a contented sigh. Perhaps, finally, things would return to how they used to be. One could hope.

* * *

Hopelessly lost and confused, Damien paced the area beside the black gazebo in the courtyard. Everything had gone so wrong…He felt so cold, despite it being a warm, sunny day. His whole being felt chilled to the bone.

Mark…his friend…dead. Murdered, even. How could this have happened? Things were just beginning to take a turn for the best. All three childhood friends had gathered once more in the same place, and they'd been so close to reconnecting the bond of trust and companionship they'd once shared years ago. Damien had held out the hope that despite the bad decisions and grudges carried for so long they would move past their hurt and come together as the trio he'd missed so dearly.

But it was all for naught. Within the span of a few hours, he'd lost a great friend. Nervously wringing his cane, he almost didn't hear the footsteps approaching him until he'd turned back around in his pacing.

Sighing at the sight of them, Damien loosened the grip on his cane and met them halfway. "Look, I'm sorry you saw that argument with the Colonel. I lost my temper and it wasn't right and…" His friend didn't deserve to see him like that, even in the worst of times. Then, not wanting them to think William was a bad person, he continued. "He must be in shock.

"The Colonel's an eccentric; it's his best quality and his worst. But he's my friend…and so was Mark." His friend said nothing, nodding slowly in understanding, but not giving any sort of response. Perhaps they simply didn't know what to say. That was alright.

Knowing that the attorney was helping the detective with his 'investigation,' he offered some information about Mark. Anything at all could help a case like this, no matter how small the details, and even he couldn't be withholding information if he hoped for the murderer to be brought to justice. Mark deserved as much, no matter how awful he felt having to speak of him in the past tense.

He supposed verbalizing it aloud made it all the more real. Perhaps the reality was now truly beginning to set. Deciding he'd spoken all he could on the matter without feeling uncomfortable, the mayor sighed again, smoothing his hair with a hand.

"I don't have any answers right now. I just need to be alone…to _process_ all of this." He gestured towards the manor, indicating what had transpired inside.

His friend finally nodded, placing a consoling hand on his shoulder, before turning back towards the way they'd come. Damien was grateful they didn't push the issue too hard, not knowing how much he could speak of what had happened before breaking down.

Finding himself alone again Damien began the pacing back and forth, eyes almost impulsively wandering back to the spot where the photographer had stood on that wonderful. Where he'd stood against the wall. Where William had stood. And where Mark had placed himself between them, jovially celebrating Damien's success with the both of them.

Feeling a sudden sorrow well up inside of him, he ripped his gaze away from the spot and continued wringing his cane, mind seeking refuge in other memories.

* * *

He felt so…different…when he opened his eyes. Of course, it was only logical he would. He wasn't where he was supposed to be. But it wasn't just that. Something more he hadn't expected.

Damien blinked a few times, his mind finally comprehending that he was looking at the chandelier above the foyer. So, this is where his friend had fallen. He briefly wondered if they had felt pain before dismissing it entirely. That mattered not, now.

The body felt foreign, of course. It wasn't his to begin with. It was a borrowed suit, ill-fitting. But he would grow used to it, he was sure. With a great deal of care, he pushed himself into a sitting position on the floor, before trusting his new limbs enough to stand fully erect. Each movement felt stiff and mechanical. Obviously the body hadn't moved for a great amount of time.

The most jarring part of this whole thing was just how…empty it all felt. How devoid of color it all appeared. Was this the world through the eyes of a broken man? Was this how Mark had viewed his surroundings? Or maybe he was simply looking through the lens of insanity. He couldn't be sure his senses had remained intact through this whole experience.

It was then that he noticed the pressure in his mind, the crowded feeling of being unable to think properly. As if multiple thoughts started and overlapped each other every second. It was all one continuous flow of emotion and thought, going in circles. He tried ignoring it, but as he grew conscious of it's presence it grew stronger.

Turning around to gain his bearings, he stopped and was startled by William sitting on the couch a few feet away. He took a pace back, not expecting to see him, and the man stood with a hand reaching towards him in a calming fashion.

"No, no. It's ok!" He said breathlessly. Damien took in the sight of his friend; the Colonel's hat and tan jacket were both missing, leaving him in his bright yellow shirt and red suspenders. In his hand he cradled his own cane, strangely enough. What was he doing with that? He was about to ask as much but the man took a pace forward.

"I thought you were dead…" He muttered, a shocked and relieved smile stuck on his face. Damien said nothing, unsure of what he could really say at this point. What could words do in a time like this? Words had played no part in this whole tragedy, this unfortunate series of events, nor would they be the solution. And so, he watched numbly as William continued muttering to himself, that crazed look in his eyes never waning.

A part of him wanted to reach out and comfort the man as he stumbled across the room towards the mirror. Celine, most likely. Perhaps feeling regret for leaving him. A part of her still loved the man, despite how things had ended between them. She still loved all of them, in her own way, but Damien wouldn't go through with her urge. It was best to let him be at this point.

"It was all a joke!" He cried into the empty manor. Laughing to himself in a way that couldn't be healthy, William stumbled back, almost tripping over his own feet. "Were you in on this? Did Damien put you up to this? Of course he did!"

The mayor swallowed the guilt as it welled up in his throat. Seeing William this way, it was…difficult. Despite his mistakes and flaws, he'd still been his friend. He'd never wanted any harm to befall any of the people he cared for, but there was nothing he could do for him now.

Celine cried out with pain, seeing the man she loved descend upon himself, collapse inwards from the inability to cope with the reality. Damien pushed her back again, standing there as William began bounding away towards the hall.

"Damien, where are you, you rapscallion?" He shouted into the stale morning air.

Damien closed his eyes, unable to stop the pang of sorrow at hearing his own name being called out in such a way. It was full of hope and fear, a combination that hit the very deepest part of his soul. At least, the part of his soul that had always belonged to him.

Turning numbly to look at his cane, he reached for it. When his fingers touched the wood, they curled around it in an unfamiliar way. The grip felt different. But slowly, before his eyes, the fingers shifted into what was once his own. The cane sat much more comfortably in his hand now.

All the buzzing in his head was growing oppressive. Celine and the attorney fought for control, or at least to put their word in. It was all too much, too much! More out of desperation than anything, he cracked his neck, hoping to alleviate some of the pressure. Then, he snapped it the other way, and suddenly all was eerily quiet and still. A sigh escaped him, relieved to have ended all the stimuli.

Lifting his gaze to the mirror, he was surprised to see his own face staring back at him through the cracks. This had been the attorney's body, hadn't it? Why did it look like him? Was he only seeing what he wanted to see? Damien wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Between his own reflection, however, staring back at him through the cracks, were Celine and the attorney. Expressions of shock, fear, and then resentment. At least, on Celine's part. The attorney looked blank, as if they couldn't process what had happened. Damien himself wasn't quite sure how they'd been expelled from his head, but it was…freeing.

Alone with his own thoughts again, he remembered why they'd even joined together in the first place. Mark. He was out there, walking around in his own body, unpunished for all of the pain and grief and death he had caused. This manor's halls and rooms were tainted with the blood of the innocent, and the sorrow of those who'd trusted him. Damien's lip curled in anger at the thought. Mark, the man he'd once called friend, had betrayed them all for his own selfish and sick reasons.

Straightening his suit with a tug, not bothering affording the two other souls in the mirror a parting glance, he turned away, intent on finding the man that had tricked them all.

* * *

**A/N- This story was so full of victims who'd also done wrong. You couldn't be sure whether to feel bad or as though the outcome was justified for their actions. But Damien (at least that we know) hadn't impacted the conflict through any of his actions. Yet, he is the one who becomes the villain in the end. A very strange and very exciting outcome indeed.**


	7. Life Needs A Bit of Madness

**A/N- William was probably the most difficult to write for, only because he was such a major part of the story and the events that took place, his perspective is more important than others.**

*** $2,000 back in the 1920's is valued at roughly $25,000 in today's currency, for reference later in the chapter.**

* * *

"…and there I was, eyeing the beast within my rifle's scope." William rehearsed, his hands holding an imaginary gun for demonstration. "I had barely enough time to check the wind's direction before it took off, barreling right towards me! Closer and closer it came, and I got off the shot just in time, dropped it to the ground with a single bullet!"

"Oh my, that must have been frightening." Celine raised her eyebrows, walking slowly beside her companion through the garden.

"Bully, I was petrified! Scared out of my wits." The Colonel agreed with a hearty laugh, his grin infectious. "But it all turned out alright. I checked afterwards, and it was close to being a record size moose."

"Hmm, were you disappointed?" She questioned, wrapping the shawl tighter around her exposed arms. He noticed this small discomfort, then cursed himself for leaving his jacket in the manor. Always the gentleman, he'd have offered it to her in a heartbeat. Remembering she'd asked a question, he shook his head.

"Only just. The beast was a great challenge to track down to begin with. I'd have been more disappointed had it gotten away."

Celine chuckled softly, and a comfortable quiet settled between them. William, kept stealing glances at the remarkable person walking beside him. Mark was certainly a lucky bastard for finding such a magnificent woman.

 _Of course, when he's actually here to enjoy her._ His mood briefly soured a notch, a flicker of resentment crossing his face without him knowing.

Even now, Mark was holed up in his study, no doubt poring over movie deals and scripts meticulously. The man was obsessed with his work, often times neglecting anything and everyone else in favor of doing it. That included Celine, who would often times have nothing to occupy her time other than reading books she found in the library. It was a very lonely pastime, and William would hate for her to be bored while waiting for her idiot husband to remember even having a wife.

So, whenever William came visiting, he'd made it a point to accompany her on walks in the garden, or forays in the library, where they'd simply converse for hours. It was the least he could do for her.

Celine was quite the conversationalist when it suited her and enjoyed picking apart topics she got from the books that filled most of her day. Her mind was as deep as her soul, something William flocked to like a moth. He'd never met anyone quite as interesting and… _real_ as her. So genuine and wholesome. He doubted there'd ever be another woman such as her in his lifetime.

"Are you quite alright, William?" She inquired, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her lips. His eyes narrowed in confusion, uncertain why she was suddenly asking on his health. She chuckled quietly. "You've been staring at me awhile."

"Oh!" He blustered with embarrassment, shaking his head and gesturing placatingly. "I was lost in thought. I meant no offense."

"I know, but I do wonder what you were thinking about that had you so distracted. You've been doing that quite a lot the last few times we've met." She implied, silently asking that he tell her about it.

"Ah, well…" He trailed off, unsure of what to say. He couldn't exactly tell her she was too good for Mark, like he'd actually been thinking. That would do no good at all, but William was drawing a blank as to what to talk about in place of the truth. What story did he have that he could distract her with?

Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how you looked at it, Mark chose that moment to call his wife's name, his voice carrying from the courtyard of the manor into the garden. William couldn't decide whether to be grateful he'd been spared an awkward conversation or irritated that Mark was the one to thank for it.

"Celine, where on earth are you, darling?" He shouted in amusement. The woman in question gave William a kind but apologetic smile, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"I'd better go, but do tell me more stories of your last safari the next time we meet. _And_ what's wormed its way into that head of yours."

He nodded enthusiastically, wiping away the distaste as if it had never occurred. "Of course, Celine. Any time you'd like."

Mark called for her again, and she hurried forward around the corner, leaving his sight. The smile faded from his face, and he stared at the ground beneath his boots. He hadn't realized the tightness in his chest until she'd left, when it began to dissipate. He was mortified to identify the feeling, knowing that the path it would lead was a very dangerous one.

Celine was a married woman. The wife to his best friend, no less. His head knew that. But his damned heart didn't care. Part of him didn't even feel guilty for pining after her, seeing the way she lived while married to Mark. Certainly she was worth more than an hour or two of attention, only to be ignored the rest of the day? Had Mark no sense of value of a woman like that?

Sitting on the sidelines watching as the woman he…oh, damn him, there was no way around the truth—the woman he loved was treated poorly was agony. He'd never question her decision to marry his childhood friend. The man had money, plenty to afford anything she might desire. He was renowned, an actor. The man lived in a mansion for god's sake.

William was…well, he was William. And all of a sudden, he could understand why she'd stay married to Mark. There was a lot he could provide that he could not. All at once the crushing reality that neither Mark _or_ himself were good enough for the elusive Celine descended upon him. She was smart enough to decide for herself what she wanted, and that decision had been made years ago, cemented in stone on her wedding day.

_If all that's the case, why do I still yearn for her?_

The human condition, perhaps, of always wanting what you couldn't have. Angrily, more at the cruelty life could exhibit than himself or anyone else, William scowled to the ground and walked off towards the golf course, looking for something to occupy himself with to distract from these treacherous thoughts.

* * *

William stared at the finely-scribed collections notice that had arrived in the mail that morning, eyes rereading the print for perhaps the dozenth time. He couldn't be reading this correctly, could he? It had to be a joke. What else could it be?

" _…_ _of the Warfstache household…"_

_"…_ _kindly bring attention to…"_

_"…_ _as a result of numerous civil suits and postings of bail…"_

_"…_ _henceforth all matters will be forwarded to the jurisdiction of the State…"_

_"…_ _of an outstanding sum totaling $2,000 owed."_

The number stood glaringly against the page. $2,000 they claimed he owed? What in God's name was this? He read over the first page again, swearing that his eyes were deceiving him. Yet the words remained the same. How could this be?

Too preoccupied with the first page of the letter, he hadn't yet bothered to read the second. Shaking his head with a feeling of dread pitting in his stomach, he set the first page down and unfolded the second, reading the words written there in an awfully familiar script. Though, the scrawl was sloppier, messier, and the ink thicker than he'd expect of a letter from Mark. He'd let his emotions drive him writing it, it seemed.

_"_ _William,_

_It has come to my attention that the cost of our friendship is no longer worth its weight. My lawyers have been so kind as to compile the total expense it has cost me all these years of being your acquaintance, and I've enclosed the sum of which you owe me for doing so. Lying bastards like yourself don't come cheap, it seems._

_And kindly give the witch my regards._

_Mark"_

Celine, who was still asleep in the other room, didn't hear as William crumpled up his former friend's letter and hurled it against the wall with a growl. He'd anticipated Mark's anger in the aftermath of Celine's departure, especially once he figured out the reasoning, but this! This was absolutely mad!

$2,000 he wanted? It would take him years to pay off that debt! William was by no means poor, but _$2,000?_ Surely the fines hadn't added up to that number over the years? The anger began to recede, shifting into panic, and fear.

How was he to tell Celine? What was she to think? They'd only just married. Would she want to remain with him if he were forced into poverty? Surely the love they shared would be enough to see them through…

He was all too familiar with Mark's stubbornness. And the thinly veiled threat of having his lawyers on hand was all too clear to the Colonel. If he tried skipping on the debt he 'owed' they would surely be watched and dogged for years, simply because the arrogant idiot wanted to spite him.

Very well. William had received the message. If this is what Mark wanted, to ruin his life as he'd perceived his own to be ruined, so be it. But the Colonel wasn't going to stand idly by and let him do it. He'd find a way, somehow, to keep his marriage with Celine intact, the way Mark hadn't. And somehow he'd find a way to pay off all this money, even if it meant a hard life for the years to come.

William had accepted that his friendship with Mark would end, had known it the minute he'd asked Celine to come away with him. No respectable man would accept an outcome like that, and the Colonel could understand any ill feelings directed his way. And yet somehow Mark had still found a way to cross the line. That was it, then. There'd be no peace between them.

May the best bastard win.

* * *

Never again did he expect a letter from the Iplier household. Yet there it sat, unopened, and sealed with the familiar family crest stamped into the red ink.

William was urged to reach for his trusty flask, a quick ounce of liquid courage before he even touched the damn letter, but thought against it. It was barely the break of day. Best to leave the drinking for later on.

What did the bastard want now? To taunt him? Rub in his face the fact that Celine had left him as well? Surely he'd suffered enough torment for one lifetime from his former friend.

She'd left some years ago, her determination to find what was really going on with that house a greater priority than any relationship. William had tried reasoning with her, tried offering solutions, alternatives, but the woman was firm in her decision. Love had no place in her life anymore, not with all this evil her eyes had been opened to.

William had been very supportive of her research into the otherworldly. Ever since they'd began the affair she'd had a passion for things not quite proven real. Mysteries had always intrigued her far beyond any fantastic tale he could spin. He'd accepted that. It was a part of her, just as the mistakes he'd made in the past were a part of him.

But the support turned to concern when she began dabbling into this black magic herself. Strange things occurred at the Warfstache home not long afterwards, unexplainable events and the like. Items would move mysteriously. They'd both fallen ill an unusual amount of times. A heaviness pressed in on the air inside. It wasn't these he had began to fear, however. It was Celine.

This black magic business had changed her, the same way she'd described Mark changing at the manor. The lovable, kind, and understanding woman had become distant. Almost uninterested with everything except her work. William noticed she'd developed quite a temper, nowadays being more prone to yell when she was upset, and smack her hands on the countertops. They fought, frequently, he remembered bitterly. Celine may have developed this newfound habit of making sure she got what she wanted, but he'd always been stubborn and bullheaded. Ever since childhood, especially in regards to Mark. He had plenty of practice in butting heads.

The rift William couldn't figure out how to close widened with each day, each nasty comment and argument. Even more frustrating was the fact that she didn't see how much she had changed. Time and time again, she'd deny it, before retreating to their bedroom for a few hours to cool off.

There was no end to it, until one day there was. The day he'd woken up to half of the dresser empty and a note on the table, her wedding ring placed in the corner of the paper.

Finally deciding to partake in that drink, the misery too much to bear at that moment, William quickly tossed his head back, the lukewarm alcohol burning his throat on the way down. Instead, he thought about the hatred he'd always harbor for Mark. It was much easier to bear than anything else.

He let out a rumbled sigh, eyes locked on the letter that still sat untouched. What else could the man possibly to do him now that hadn't already been done? He supposed he'd better get over it and see what the bastard had to say. His hand slapped down on the letter and pulled it forward. The seal was broken within a moment and he pulled out the contents.

_"_ _You've been cordially invited Poker Night at Iplier Manor."_

William's eyes narrowed, suspecting some sort of trick. A second paper, much smaller than the first, was still tucked inside the envelope, and he pulled it free next. No doubt it would contain some sort of sardonic message like the last time. Well, he was in a mood to hate the man this morning anyway.

_"_ _Let's say we have a drink and a chat, old friend? It's time we cleared the air._

_-Mark"_

His eyes narrowed. Was he trying to be funny? Participating in some gigantic leg pull that William wasn't aware of? Was he mad? He stays silent for years, then comes around with an extension of friendship? That didn't sound like Mark at all. That sounded much more like something Damien would try, and then he wondered if it had all been the mayor's idea to begin with.

Him and Damien never had outright problems but it frustrated William to no end that he wouldn't ever take a side, forever sitting on the sidelines and hoping everyone involved could settle their differences. The man was way too worried about offending someone else.

Still, he'd never expected for Mark to be the one to breach the separation between them first. William had been more than satisfied never speaking to him again, never expecting any sort of reciprocation from the former friend. Now that the invitation had been offered, William felt like he could at least face the man that had caused him considerable grief over the years. Never one to back down or run from confrontation, the Colonel felt it was about time to 'clear the air,' as Mark put it. But perhaps not in the sense the actor thought.

No, he'd make his stance very clear on what he thought. And hell, perhaps the arrogant bastard would even apologize. He felt Mark owed him a _lot_ of drinks at any rate. And any excuse to drink was more incentive than whatever Mark had to say.

* * *

"I can't believe you…You come find me when you pull your head out of your ass!"

With a mix of disbelief and acrimony, William watched as the normally cool-headed and polite Damien walked away in a rush. Biting back the curse that threatened to spill through, the Colonel stared with venom at the wall. He doubted the mayor had _ever_ spoken to him like that before. It had definitely been years at the very least.

All this murder business…William didn't know what to do. He'd woken with a raging hangover, and the disturbing, clouded memories of having committed a terrible act. He hadn't been sure it was real until Damien had come to him with the news. Even then, he had half a mind not to believe it. The Colonel may have hated the man's guts but…him? A murderer? Never…

The sound of muffled footsteps as someone entered the small theater drew his attention, and he sighed, not wanting to hear anything more from his friend.

"Damien, I don't-" He stopped, looking up to see the attorney approaching him. "Oh."

The mayor had mentioned his friend, the attorney, was helping the detective on this case. The questioning had come sooner than he'd expected. Thankfully he was able to send them on their way without too much trouble, imploring they investigate elsewhere. The manor was rife with possible suspects, thankfully, giving the Colonel time to think of what to do.

Only bits and pieces were clear, but William knew how this all looked. He knew it would be difficult to keep it all from Damien especially. The mayor understood him too well. And the worst part was he'd try talking to him about it as much as possible.

Yes, perhaps laying low would be the best course of action.

* * *

Damien…he still had Damien! Where was that blasted idiot? He'd gone with Celine, hadn't he? Where had they gone? Upstairs! Of course, upstairs. He'd forgotten in all the excitement. William hadn't lost everything yet. He'd always have Damien, of course…

Leaving the bloodstained jacket and hat where they lay on the ground beside him, the Colonel stood shakily to his feet and clambered up the stair to the second floor. His knee hit a few of the wooden steps on the way up, stumbling a couple times, but he felt no pain.

It was a short trip down the hallway and up to the door where Celine had emerged from. Changed, glowing, red and blue. The sight had horrified him, and a part of him was scared to even open the door, but Damien had to be inside. He'd have all the answers. William wouldn't be alone in this godforsaken house any longer.

With only the smallest hesitation, he threw open the door and stared inside. There was no Celine, just an empty room with the spiritual items still set up on the table. The candles had long been extinguished, and the tarot cards had scattered all over the floor.

"Damien?" He called, the first bit of his panic cracking through his voice. "Where are you, Damien?"

William stepped closer, peering around the door to see further inside. The lights were off and it was dark inside, but it was just bright enough to see. The hope that had previously formed died away when he saw it leaning against the wall. Damien's cane.

Hands shaking, he reached out to it, it's significance slowly sinking in. Damien never went anywhere without his cane. It was practically a comfort item. The metal topper was worn but still polished from where Damien would constantly twist it in his hands nervously or with excitement. How could he have forgotten his cane? Why would he have left it?

Not wanting to believe the truth, the Colonel cradled it to his chest, the first of the tears sliding down his cheek. Numbly, he walked out of the room and back down to the foyer. Surely…he must be somewhere? Damien had to be somewhere? William couldn't do this all alone. Not after Mark. Not after Celine. Or the detective.

Not after that attorney fellow.

"D-Damien?" His voice carried down the hallway weakly, but there was no answer.

He kept looking, knowing the man had to be hiding around here somewhere. The mayor was all he had left.

* * *

The wood was soft, worn smooth from the years of use. He wondered just how long Damien had had it for, and why he'd come to have it anyways. He'd never had a limp. Perhaps it was merely for decoration.

The silver knob on the top of the cane shined. The sun reflecting through the windows—was it morning already?—glinted off the top and bounced it to the opposing wall. A small orb of light bobbed up and down as he moved it.

As canes went, this one was extremely simple. Most others he'd seen were laden with colored jewels or figurines of animals and crests. But Damien was—had been—a simple man. He'd never been partial to extravagance or useless expenditure for vanity's sake like Mark had…It was just like him to have something so elegant, yet so simple.

William couldn't look away, didn't want to look away. The cane was a much better sight than the graying corpse not ten feet away. Yes, the cane was a fine sight to behold. Why look away?

The bottom end of the cane, narrowed to a smaller point than at the top, was scuffed and dirty, and small chips of the black pain had come away, revealing the dark wood it was comprised of. Perhaps rosewood, or walnut? Mahogany? Maybe even…

William's sight began to blur with building moisture. He couldn't do this anymore, pretend he'd done nothing wrong. The evidence lay right across from him. He was sorry and hadn't intended things to end up this way, but it had happened nonetheless. He just couldn't do it anymore. Closing his eyes to steel himself, he forced them back open and away from Damien's cane cradled in his hands.

The attorney's face was blank, staring up at the chandelier above the foyer. Had that been the last thing they'd seen before they died? What was going through their mind? Had there been pain? Was it over in a second?

Mark's death…perhaps he could have handled it, had it been the only one. There was no lost love between them, and William had secretly always hoped the bastard would get what he deserved. The actor had caused enough people grief, had cost too many too much. Perhaps the world wouldn't be a better place without him, but the Colonel had his doubts.

The detective—no, Abe was his name—had egged him on, riled him up. Even now, he felt the horrible aftertaste of trying to justify his actions. Chances were, had he waited even another few seconds, everything would have been worked out. Damien had always been better with words than himself, but surely both himself and Abe would have calmed down eventually. He doubted the detective would have made the shot, despite the high tensions at the time.

A stain on his soul. But the worst of all, perhaps, had been the innocent District Attorney. William held no greater regret than taking their life. What harm had they done him? And the fact that he knew practically nothing about them made it all the harder to accept what he'd done. Had they had a family? Was a small child somewhere now parentless? The unforeseeable domino effect the attorney's death carried with it was terrifying. A single life could be instrumental to the lives of hundreds of others.

Was that why he sat here, staring at their corpse? Did William feel like he owed them at least that? He'd been the one to put them there, it was his due to face his actions and own up to it.

An honorable man would have informed the authorities hours ago, but here he remained, unable to look away from the death and destruction he had wrought. Even now, he could feel the mistakes pressing at his back, pushing in on him eagerly. Waiting for him to snap. Waiting to push him over the edge.

Nothing made sense. Despite his inner turmoil, there were so many things William couldn't understand. How had Mark's body ended up where it had? He'd been killed in the cellar. He hadn't moved him, too panicked to do anything more than return to his room and furiously scrub out the blood from his clothes. Where had the body gone afterwards?

What happened to Celine? Or Damien? His friends were missing. The detective was dead. The staff of the house had run while they could, perhaps for the best. William couldn't be a danger to them if they were no longer here.

…When had it all gone so wrong?

And above it all was the realization that it was all William's fault. it had always been, he now understood. Mark had been driven to madness because of his own selfish infatuation with his wife. The debt placed over his head had been his own mistakes, and his own conceited expectation that his friends should take as much of the blame as himself. Everything up to this point had been because of his action or lack thereof, and he had no one else to point to but himself.

The grip on the cane tightened, the sweat from his hands making the wood slide in his fingers. If only he could take it all back, do it all over again. He'd do right. He'd make different choices. Another chance and it would go right this time.

A small noise, something out of place to the creaks and groans of the manor as he'd sat there listening all night long and into the morning. It caught his hearing and he looked up at the terrifying sight. It shouldn't be possible…

The attorney, their eyes very much alive and looking around with confusion, stood up. They'd been dead…surely? He'd checked a pulse, there'd been nothing. Their skin had turned ashen, they'd grown cold, William was almost certain. And yet there they stood, standing with a slight stagger and now looking at him.

He stood, gesturing placatingly with his free hand when they recoiled with shock or fear. "Oh no, no! It's ok!" He didn't want them thinking he'd hurt them again. He'd learned the first time around.

Was this some answer to his plea? Some divine intervention? Why…why of course! It had to be. Nothing else could explain all of this…all this confusion and he had so many questions and by god, they were alive! His heart leapt, a spark of hope once again alive in his soul.

"I-I thought you were dead." He admitted aloud, watching the attorney peer at them through those wide eyes. They remained silent, and William rushed to correct himself. This was his second chance! He mustn't ruin it like this. "I-I-I mean of _course_ you're not dead! You're not—how could you be dead?"

The confusion and slight fear never wavered in the attorney's eyes, and the paced warily behind the small table between the both of them. The Colonel rushed to cover the confusion, hoping to explain so they would understand. It was all just a big misunderstanding, of course it was!

"I-I mean, I wouldn't have killed you. I-I didn't kill you…"

William gently, slowly set down the cane on the nearest table, eyes sweeping around the floor trying to reach an explanation for all of this. What could have made all this possible? Surely, none of this had been real…It couldn't be…William was no fool, and he was not tricked easily—

Tricked. A gag. A funny. Yes, that must be it! All a prank! It had to be! How else would the attorney have gotten back up again? All that guilt over a silly leg-pull, how could he be so foolish as to fall for their gags?

"Of course. I didn't kill anybody…" He looked into the mirror, seeing himself for the first time since the day before. He looked quite worse for wear, but it was still him. He was still William. Yellow shirt and all. He hadn't changed. Murderer? Bah! A murderer wouldn't look like that, no sir! A chuckle burst from his lips, and he stumbled a pace backwards. How could he be so foolish? "I didn't—it was all a joke!"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted that the attorney wasn't laughing, but surely, he could explain and they would all laugh together, how funny everything was. "It was all a joke! Were you in on this?"

Before the attorney could reply, he realized. It all clicked. It made sense, the puzzle pieces falling together perfectly. "Did Damien put you up to this? Of course he did!" No wonder the man was hiding. He'd been waiting for this all to come together so he could poke fun at William later. Well, he'd seen through the trick!

"Damien, where are you, you rapscallion?" He called, eyes searching the front room a second time for his missing friend. He must have found a wonderful hiding place. It was time to come out now, the bluff had been called, and they'd all come together for another laugh at his expense.

"Where are you?" Vaguely, he realized the attorney wasn't following after him, but that was quite alright. They'd all meet in the foyer afterwards. "Celine?" Of course, if Damien had set this up he must have gotten her to participate. Those bunch of jesters, they were.

"It's time to come out now." He called into the empty hallways, stumbling along chuckling all the while. "It was good, it was good. You almost had me!"

His steps echoed loudly on the wooden floors. Goodness, where were they hiding? He'd always been good at hide and seek as a child. He knew every nook and cranny of this house. Mark, Damien, and himself had quite a grand old time finding places to hide from each other. Oh yes! Mark, where was that fellow? Oh, but he truly missed Celine. He hoped he'd find her first.

* * *

**A/N- William's was difficult, simply because of how heartbreaking the whole outcome turned out to be. Everyone had such good intentions to begin with...**


	8. It's Not Fair, Is It?

**A/N- Definitely my favorite chapter to write. So much emotional turmoil, and I loved the character Mark portrayed for...well, Mark. I cannot express enough how much I thought Teamiplier did an amazing job on this project, and I hope we see more like it soon.**

***WARNING* There are mentions of suicide and suicidal thoughts. For those who are easily disturbed by that sort of thing, I advise you take caution if you would like to continue reading.**

**There is always support. There is always help. If Mark's character in this story is any sort of example, it's that it is never the answer.**

* * *

Mark's knuckles were white, fingers tense as he gripped the edge of the table. His gaze stayed fixed on the picture frames before him, eyes flicking between each one, always seeming to find their way back to the second one no matter how many times he tried looking away…

Celine by his side, laughing at some conversation that now was unimportant. It hadn't been important then either, but at least at the time, it had felt like there was some meaning to it, some sentimental, love-sick value to the jokes and words exchanged. Now, the thought of the memory captured in the frame gave him nothing but a sick feeling in his gut, twisting the proverbial knife deeper into his stomach and pushing further in…

The first photo wasn't as gut-wrenching, but nonetheless, was of no help to his brooding. The 'gang' as they'd called themselves back then, arm in arm having a grand old time, Mark thought sarcastically. If only he'd known what it would come to, what it would cost him in the end.

Beside it, the picture of William dressed in his usual militaristic attire seemed almost to taunt him, mock him. Mark's eyes narrowed, a rumble of anger coming from his chest. Why did he even have this photo to begin with?! Letting his hatred pour out of him in a great roar, Mark grabbed the corner of the frame and hurled it at the opposing wall with as much force as he could muster.

The sound of shattering glass and the dull thump of the frame itself falling to the ground were the only things that answered his rage. His bedroom wall now sported a jagged hole caused by the corner of the picture frame. Mark stood huffing with the exertion of controlling his anger, staring at the offending mark in spite. His hands threaded themselves through his hair, and he paced a few feet in either direction, a strangled sob threatening to escape his lips.

So empty, this feeling of loneliness, of disregard. Was it that easy to throw him away? That easy to be replaced? Everything he'd worked towards, everything he'd held dear, was now in tatters. The trust he'd placed in his childhood friend, ruined. The love he'd forged with the woman of his dreams, broken and forgotten, shoved back into Mark's face. As if the years of commitment for each other had meant nothing.

Her pity and sympathy had been the final nail in the coffin, trying to mend the hurt while simultaneously, unknowingly, sticking the knife further into his heart. If it had been her intention to end things on a better note, she'd hopelessly failed, he thought bitterly, almost smugly. That had been ensured as she'd left him for the man he'd called friend, without so much as a proper goodbye. Only the swish of her dress skirt as she shut the door, suitcase in hand, mere hours before.

Not even a glance back.

Not even a tear.

Suddenly the bedroom around him, neatly put together and maintained as he'd always kept it, felt much too _normal_ for the occasion. As if it, too, were mocking him. It all looked like Celine had never even left. Had he known better, Mark could've sworn she was on her way up from the front parlor, and before long she'd be back, sitting poised upon the ottoman with one of her books, feet tucked neatly beneath her. His eyes lit upon the vanity, where she could normally be found adjusting her hat, or touching up her lipstick, smiling coyly at him through the reflection.

In his heart he knew, deep down, he missed her. He _missed_ her, so keenly, so desperately, and he hated himself more for it. But Mark could not, for the life of him, hate her, despite trying his damndest. That witch, that _vixen_ of a woman…the way her head tilted mischievously when something caught her amusement…that…breathtaking smile that could strike him still at merely the sight…

Poison wrapped in a pretty package, that's what she was, he angrily reminded himself. Who was she to ruin him this way? To take advantage of his weakness for her, for his love, to use him and toss him aside like everyday rubbish. Could she see how he yearned for her, despite knowing he'd never trust her again? Couldn't she see how much it pained him to lose her?

And worse yet, to that bastard of a man, William.

His _friend._ The word crossed his mind with the worst of aftertastes, only serving to infuriate him further.

The ottoman that stood at the foot of the bed joined the picture frame on the floor, carelessly tossed aside. Next was the waste bin, it's contents scattered as it thudded against the wall and stopped haphazardly on it's pile of neatly folded and stacked clothes that rested on the bed from the laundry that morning now found a place on the dresser, the headboard, the ground, and everywhere else Mark could care to fling them. It did little to sate this boiling hurt that filled him.

Anguished and malicious screams filled his ears, and it was some time before he realized they came from his own mouth, running his voice ragged and raw, until even breathing became painful. His hands acted instinctively, grabbing and throwing anything within his sight. The room around him, in that time, had become a wreck, matching the broken man who occupied it.

And finally, Mark did cry, the tears streaming without his permission down his cheeks and into the carpet beneath his face. His hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into the flesh making small cuts. He barely felt them over the searing emotional pain of losing his beloved, losing his friends, and the trust that came with them.

 _Never again,_ he promised himself, _will I fall for such trickery._

* * *

_They must be so happy._

A warm summer breeze came in through the bedroom window, gently tickling across Mark's stubbled chin. He payed the sensation no mind, eyes glazed over and gaze riveted on the courtyard down below through his window. It was midmorning, yet still the middle of June brought with it an early heat to the day. He could feel his skin hot, the beginnings of sweat to cling to his face, but Mark's mind was elsewhere, and he gave it no further thought.

_It's not fair, really._

Earlier in the morning, Gerald had tried bringing him his usual breakfast, but he'd sent him away, not wanting to be bothered. Now, his stomach grumbled from the lack of food, finally pulling him from his wandering thoughts. Deftly, he pressed the switch for the annunciator he knew to be stationed in the kitchen and butlers' stations downstairs. Nothing appeared to happen on his end but, he knew, in a few moments time, Gerald would come knocking on his door.

 _Why should they be happy, while I waste away?_ He thought to himself in the time he waited for Gerald.

Sure enough, within a minute or so, there was a gentle knock at the door. "Enter." Mark called, barely glancing in the direction that the older butler entered from.

"You called for me, Sir?" The butler offered with a small nod.

"Send for my breakfast." He replied bluntly and without inflection. There was a momentary pause, as if Gerald were about to tell him he'd already tried fetching it for him previously, but the man was too well trained a butler to refuse his Master's order so obviously.

With another short decline of the head, Gerald turned heel. "Of course. I'll bring it immediately." He offered no other words as the door shut behind him, leaving the house Master to his own miserable thoughts once more.

 _It's_ ** _not_** _fair._ He emphasized in his head, ignoring the strangest feeling that it wasn't him speaking to himself any longer. The pressure in his head that had lingered during the past few weeks in the wake of Celine's betrayal no longer bothered him as much as it used to. It was nothing more than a migraine from all the pent-up anger he was feeling. Nothing more.

**_It's not fair._ **

His outbursts of anger immediately after Celine and William's affair had come to light had faded, leaving him seething silently to himself, stuck with this growing hatred and disappointment. William was supposed to have been his friend, his support. After everything Mark had done for him, quite literally paying for all the man's mistakes, time and time again to keep him from falling into a life of imprisonment and shame…and all he gave him was a knife in the back. The actor had risked his reputation and public image for the man, and this is what he received in return?

Celine…she was supposed to have been his rock, the one who kept him grounded when all else seemed too much. His career had nearly left him too caught up in his own greatness to remember those that he cared about. For a long time, he'd been lost to everyone except himself. Celine had been the one to remind him there were better things worth living for. Life was for the living, as she'd taught him. He only had to find the right thing to live for.

Had that all been a lie? Sweet nothings to make him feel better about the fallacy that was his life? It left a bitter taste in his mouth, wondering if anything she'd told him held even a single inkling of truth.

_They don't deserve to be happy._

Not after what they had done to him. How was this justice? How was this fair? What great, almighty plan involved leaving a man broken, while the perpetrators lived free of regret and shame? No, this was far from justice. Far from righteousness, and far from acceptable.

_None of this is fair._

Damien, the last person he could count on, had only served to alienate him further by insisting they work the matter out in a civil fashion and forgive each other. As if the betrayal could be fixed with a few words and a firm handshake. Mark had dismissed the thought immediately, realizing that the mayor would be of no help to him. After that, he'd stopped returning letters. No doubt they were all filled with the same drivel, urging him to mend the broken relationship.

Damien had always liked to play therapist, never picking a side, always wanting everyone to get along. The childish notion that everyone could be friends had long since faded for Mark, and he couldn't stand even the thought. No, he was alone with this hurt, and he would bear it alone.

Mark must have been lost in his own thoughts for far longer than he had known, as he was torn from his mind by a quiet rap on the door. Straightening his back, which had slouched in his chair at the table, he cleared his throat and called a short 'Enter' to the man waiting behind it.

Gerald had with him a dumbwaiter, a covered silver dish atop it with silverware and a glass of something refreshing. He rolled it over beside Mark and uncovered the platter, revealing the steaming food underneath.

"Here you are, Sir. Breakfast this morning is-"

"Thank you, Gerald, that is all."

Mark hadn't even spared him a glance. The house Master could practically feel the irritation that radiated off of his servant. Strange, he thought, how much he hadn't noticed before Celine had left him. Had the manor staff always loathed him so? Nowadays he began to notice just how much his actions frustrated his hired man, though Mark found he cared not for the man's feelings. After a moment's hesitation, and seeing Gerald was still standing beside him, Mark finally turned to stare at him pointedly.

" _That will be all."_ His tone brokered no further arguments.

Recovering cleanly, Gerald set the silver cover beside the platter and gave another of those disgustingly courteous nods of his. It very nearly set Mark's teeth to grating, the obvious mockery it exuded.

"As you wish, Sir. Call for me should you require anything else." Was the man's curt reply, before he left the bedroom rather quickly.

Mark stared after him, eyes riveted on the back of the door, but his thoughts were lost once more.

_I don't deserve this sort of treatment. This sort of mockery. Do they take me for a fool?_

* * *

Weeks. Then months. Soon it will have been a full year since Celine…Mark's eyes squeezed shut, ridding his thoughts of that _woman_. Time mended all wounds, as they said, but time wasn't nearly enough to nurse back the broken trust and hurt. He wouldn't allow it. If this misery is what they wanted from him then so be it, he dismissively thought. Let them have their way. There wasn't much left of him to manipulate anyway.

The anger that shrouded him had recessed enough to allow sorrow to take the forefront. Mark had noticed the gradual change, the loss of interest in anything nowadays. Nothing seemed worth the effort. What good was this massive house if there was no one to share it with? The thought of another woman's company repulsed him far greater than the flashes of spite that occurred occasionally, and so he did not even attempt to seek companionship in another. When he was being honest, he admitted that there was no one who could replace her. Celine was truly unique in that way.

The manor staff, what few of them there were now, had taken to mostly avoiding the house Master. Not that he cared or called on them too often to begin with. The residence had never housed a large number of people, even back when his mother and father had possession of it. However, the relatively small staff had dwindled in the time after Celine had left. A few at a time, ones and twos, turned in their resignations to seek more opportune employment. Mark didn't blame them, per se, but the lack of loyalty and concern for his person further aggravated the wound of being abandoned by those he loved.

Only Gerald and Chef remained, and the odd groundskeeper who he hadn't seen in god knows how long. Mark had a sneaking suspicious it had more to do with having nowhere else to go rather than any loyalty on their part.

Gerald had been rather surprised when Mark had called for targets and ammunition for his pistol that morning. "I wish to do a bit of target practice." He'd stated without enthusiasm, barely meeting the man's eye while making the request. It was an unexpected call, Mark had to admit, but the butler couldn't possibly understand what was going through the man's mind.

"Right away, Sir. Will you have them prepared on the lawn?" He referred the the large, open space in the back of the mansion reserved for sports and other entertainment. It hadn't seen use in some time now.

"Yes, that will do just fine."

With another nod, the butler had gone, leaving Mark to get changed.

He found himself in the open air of the lawn, replacing his silken robe for casual trousers and shirt, along with his shooting gloves. The freshly cut lawn was spacious, and was now set with targets about fifty yards further down. The morning sun was warm against his back, though the shade of the trees shielded him from most of the intensity.

Mark was alone, as he'd desired to be. Gerald had been all to happy to leave him to his own devices outside, scurrying away back into the house to allow the Master space. Mark had taken a few shots at the target, feeling no satisfaction when they landed very nearly within the painted, middle bullseye.

After a half hour or pretending to enjoy this little pastime, he loaded another round into the pistol, just one. It was all he'd need.

He'd decided that this was the best course of action and, perhaps, it would also be the final slap in the face to his 'dear' friend William. If the bastard wanted Mark to suffer for the rest of his life while he sat back and watched, well, Mark wouldn't give him the damn _satisfaction._

Looking behind him, he saw that the trees at the edge of the lawn blocked him from the mansion's view. No one in the house would be able to see him, and that was how he'd wanted it. A quick glance at his surroundings also ensured that the wily groundskeeper wasn't anywhere near. In this case, it was a good thing the man was such a recluse. The last thing he wanted was someone trying to help him.

A pity, he thought as he lifted the pistol to the side of his head, that the last thing he saw wouldn't be the mansion that had been his home for as long as he could remember. The last thing he held a care for.

Mark wasn't sure if he felt the bullet or not, as a sensation of pitch blackness and a bitter cold were the next things he registered. A darkness so deep, he couldn't be sure if his eyes were open or not. He felt like he was floating, then again, he didn't feel as if he had a body at all anymore. Had he any physical form anymore?

After some time, the darkness persisted still. The resignation of accepting his fate gave way to a small amount of confusion. Surely, this wasn't heaven? The church promised pearly white gates and fluffy clouds, not an emptiness so abysmally deep that he wouldn't doubt if it went on forever.

Of course, there was a distinct possibility that this was the widely feared domain of Hell, the punishment of the most wicked of men. Though he'd expected a bit more fire and brimstone. Eternal damnation wasn't as dramatic as he'd feared, it this was what was in store. In fact, it was almost quite pleasant. Besides the nagging sensation that he was not alone, Mark could get used to this feeling.

Suddenly there was a faint glow beginning from somewhere. He tried pinpointing it exactly, unable to do so in all the oppressing darkness, until he looked in the direction of what he assumed was 'down' and saw a faintly, ethereal form of his body. His fingers and hands moved, and he experimentally flexed them mechanically, reassuring himself that it was still him.

The glow, now recognizable to be colored blue, was coming from himself. Where his limbs had previously been clearly defined in life, now they faded and feathered away at the edges. He had no definite shape, no defined features. Much like a smudge ink line. Not long after these revelations, his feet felt a sturdy ground beneath them, and he took a few tentative steps forward, fearing he'd fall off this unseen platform.

 _What is this place?_ He mused to himself, but his thoughts almost seemed to ricochet in the air around him, audible to even his own ears.

Immediately after he voiced the thought, another glow began. This time, though, it did not come from him, but the space in front of them. It molded, shaped, and manifested itself in the form of two figures. At first, they were unrecognizable. Featureless shapes that shifted and changed in the darkness, until they slowed, tightened, and began to show details.

Mark took a step back, horrified to see the two people he thought he'd escaped from. Celine stared at him with that tiny smile he knew meant she was laughing to herself to something she found amusing. William stood beside her, but his eyes were riveted on her alone, paying Mark no mind. That was almost worse.

Even in death, they ignored him, disregarded him. It was maddening. As he watched William turn to Celine, mockingly kiss the same lips that Mark had, the hatred that had rested mainly dormant beneath his sorrow began to bubble, rise from it's sleep. Perhaps this was Hell, a perverse version of it. He'd prefer the fire and brimstone over an eternity of watching this bastard relish the fact that he'd stolen his wife. Anything but that.

 _This isn't fair._ He thought again, and once more the thought reverberated the space around him, a distorted version of what he'd said becoming audible.

_What did I do to deserve this?_

**_You don't deserve this._** He thought to himself. For a moment, Mark wasn't sure that had been his own thoughts, but it sounded just like his voice bouncing around the emptiness. His own voice echoed it. It must have been him.

_He took everything from me._

**_He doesn't deserve anything._ **

That feeling of being watched, of someone standing there somewhere in the darkness intensified, the air almost seemed to compress with the pressure. He could feel the tightness that had been plaguing his head the past months return. No one else was standing in the darkness surrounding him, however.

"You bastard! You betrayed me!" He finally yelled out, pointing an accusatory finger at William. The military man gave no indication he'd even heard Mark yelling in the first place.

"Is this what you wanted? For me to suffer in agony for the rest of my days?" His voice sounded hollow, empty, and yet full of the outrage that had gripped him for so long.

 ** _They shouldn't be happy._** The voice echoed again, and Mark agreed with all his being.

_They have no right!_

**_You've been betrayed._ **

_My own friend betrayed me…stole my wife…left me with nothing._

**_You should do something about that._ **

Do something about it…what could he do? He was stuck in this empty void. Finally the images of Celine and William faded away into nothing, leaving him alone once more. He was grateful, not wanting to watch the sick bastard of a man lay another finger on his wife.

**_You should make sure they aren't happy._ **

_Yes…they shouldn't be happy together. But I'm here, and they are out there._

**_There is always a way._ **

Mark paused, eyes glancing at the darkness around him. He hadn't gained everything he had by giving up. Nothing worthwhile ever came without a hard-won fight. And at that moment, he'd never wanted anything more than to have his revenge against the one person he thought he could trust above all else.

_He should suffer for all he's done to me._

* * *

The party was in full swing. The booze from the cellar ran free, his guests more than a bit drunk at this point. Mark watched in satisfaction as Damien successfully did a keg stand over at the bar in the corner, Benjamin and Abe holding his legs to prevent him from falling. The two men holding him steady looked anything but steady themselves, stumbling and swaying to either side, their eyes glazed with alcohol as they cheered him to keep going.

A friend of Damien's, the district attorney whose name escaped him in that moment, was leering at them from the bar stool, swaying precariously in their own chair. Mark couldn't tell if they were angry at them or trying to see better through squinted eyes. Either way, it was amusing to see the attorney, who looked so astute and put together just hours previously, disheveled and a drunken mess.

The chef, predictably, had stayed mostly in his kitchen. He brought out appetizers and hand foods to be enjoyed throughout the night at Mark's request, never staying in the room for more than a moment. Once the first guests began to pass out from too much alcohol, Mark knew he'd likely clean up the mess in the kitchen and head to bed.

 _Just as well,_ he thought.

William was enjoying his own drink from his flask, alone at the poker table. Mark debated whether to approach the man quite yet, finally dismissing it. He wasn't drunk enough for what he had in mind. The further he was lost in the fog of alcohol, the better. It wouldn't do to have the man walk away preemptively.

Though, it took everything he had not to strangle the man where he stood. Maintaining the easy-going and unruffled facade all night long wasn't easy. Especially with how at-home the bastard appear to be in the manor. Mark had hoped the sheer hatred he harbored for him would somehow perpetrate itself in the atmosphere, making William uncomfortable. However, it would appear that was not to be.

He had been pleasantly surprised to see that William had even attended at all. He had half a mind to believe it was simply because he knew Mark would be irritated to be in the same room as him, or there was always the off-chance that he no longer thought about the transgressions of the past. Perhaps he simply didn't care either way.

Holding a glass of booze that had yet to be touched, Mark stood beside the suit of armor beside the door. He partook in some of the celebrations, gambling away with his 'friends' and laughing when Benjamin came up broke within a half hour's time. William had stayed on the opposite side of the table, barely even giving the host a glance. All discussion he participated in was directed to others, never to him directly.

Finally, as he'd predicted, the others began to drop off, one by one, into the deep sleep only a drunkard could manage. The chef had signaled to him some time ago that he was done for the evening, before turning and disappearing down the hall to his quarters. Only himself, Abe, and William remained awake. The both of them were caught in a rousing discussion on some trivial matter, and Mark remained at the poker table, pretending to be lost in thought, or counting his winnings for the evening.

William let out a bark of a laugh, and Abe slapped the table with his hand, upending the glass of brandy that he'd been drinking from, spilling the liquid along the bar counter. They continued reeling and laughing about nothing and everything, not a care in the world. Their words were too slurred to truly decipher, but Mark waited patiently. There was that eager tendril of satisfaction, worming its way through his stomach, ready to pounce when the time was right, but he held it in check. Now was not the time. Yet.

Before long, even the detective couldn't stave off the weariness that excessive alcohol brought, and his forehead hit the counter with a thump. Deep snores following afterwards.

William payed his passed-out friend no mind, taking yet another swig from his flask. The action nearly had him toppling over himself on the stool, but he managed to grip the counter before that happened.

Smoothing down his robe, Mark stood from the table and approached the bleary-eyed man at the bar.

"William, my old friend." He bit back the gag that threatened to show, forcing his disgust back so all the drunken fool saw was the smile he stuck on his face. "It's been too long, too many years, hasn't it?"

"By God, Mark, what is it you want? Don't you see I'm busy?" He gestured in front of him in a mocking salute with his flask, his words slurring liberally. He tried bringing it to his lips once more, but Mark grabbed it and placed it on the counter.

"Can't a man be happy to see his dearest friend again?"

Unable to take back the flask that Mark had stolen, William's gaze swung over to look at his host. The note of confusion and suspicion was plainly evident, and Mark chuckled. "I know we left things on a…sour note, but it's been years, my good man. Time mends all wounds, as they say."

The suspicion did not leave his eyes as William spoke. "If I recall, you've never been one to forgive and forget. Might I remind you of the debt you so _kindly_ left me with?"

Mark tried not to let the eye-twitch come across as too obvious. He'd hoped William would forget about that small detail while this drunk. For the numerous poaching fines and instances in which he'd resisted arrest, Mark had paid for, chalking it up to the inconsequential cost of friendship.

Then, after the bitter betrayal he'd been served, Mark had added up all the expenses and tacked on an interest, sending a collection letter through his lawyer for William to pay. It hadn't gone over well, suffice to say. No doubt, William had some deep-seated anger against him for that. Still, it was him that had gotten himself into all the trouble to begin with. But now wasn't the time for that.

Collecting his thoughts, Mark nodded as in reluctant agreement. "I admit, I haven't been the most _forgiving_ of friends. And I'm sorry. I was angry, and confused. I lashed out. You didn't deserve that." The last few sentences were said through his teeth, barely making them sound genuine.

Still, William's drunkenness found him unable to distinguish the tone so much as the words themselves. He sat for a long moment, swaying minutely in the stool. Mark waited, knowing that to push would only aggravate the man further. Best to let him bring his guard down, to feel a bit more comfortable.

Finally, William shook his head dourly. "An apology is a bit late in coming, you know. A few words won't fix years of harsh living."

Mark smiled devilishly, finally having latched onto a point he could work with. "That it won't. Which is why I've come to an idea. A way for us to resolve all this bad blood between us once and for all."

The suspicion returned to William's eyes, as he glared uncertainly at Mark. "An idea?"

Mark nodded enthusiastically, the smile on his face a bit more genuine than it had been. "Yes, and it's quite simple. The perfect way to tie up loose ends and restore our friendship to what it once was. How about it, friend? Care to settle this?"

William was quiet, wondering what it was, but also wary of what Mark might have in mind. The host knew the man was cautious, slow to trust, but also an eccentric. He couldn't resist a good adventure, a good chance at a rousing story. Or, even better, a chance to beat Mark his own game, to show him the fool at the end of it all. And that was what Mark was counting on.

It seemed the years hadn't changed the military man much, because after a few more seconds of internal deliberation, the man grudgingly stood, all the while reaching out for the flask still in Mark's hand. "I suppose it's best to nip things in the bud, isn't it old chap?"

"That it is." Mark replied with contentment, helping the man to stand and leading him towards their destination. They stepped over the passed-out bodies of their friends, all snoring decidedly, not to wake until late the following morning.

"What the devil was this party celebrating to begin with?" William asked suddenly as they stumbled their way closer to the hallway.

"Just a gathering of friends, new and old. Does a celebration require any deeper purpose?" He remarked offhandedly, but the answer hadn't satisfied his drunken companion. He paused, but Mark forced him to keep walking.

Their shoes clicked evenly, or unevenly in William's case, as they crossed the tile of the hallway, finally lighting upon the stone steps of the wine cellar. Even while as far gone as he was, the Colonel still held a deep recollection of the house. It had been his home for many years after all. A low chuckle escaped his lips, spotting the stairs and remembering a memory.

"That old butler Gerald, how he used to chase us out of the cellar. Remember the time Damien got himself drenched in your Father's best red? Bully! He was grounded for weeks afterwards."

The man's rambling words made Mark smile thinly, humming his agreement while pulling him carefully down the winding steps. William's voice echoed faintly in the cellar room beneath. The light was dim, but still lit up most of the small space.

He stepped away from William, letting the man stumbled a few steps towards the back of the room. Grabbing a bottle of one of the wines on the rack, he inspected the label through squinted eyes, chuckling to himself over some internal joke. He looked back at Mark, seeing the small smile that lit on his face. The host could almost read the question in his eyes. He straightened up, watching the drunk peer blearily towards him.

"Well, Mark, what is this fantastic idea you have? A drinking game? I'd call you a damn cheater if that's the case, waiting until I'm already drunk to start…" His sentence trailed off, noticing Mark hadn't moved in the time since they'd reach the cellar. He only continued to smile thinly.

"I rather thought we'd let fate decide." He answer cryptically, reaching behind him and clasping his hands together. Though, unseen to William, he carefully reached through the small slit he'd made in the back of the robe so he could reach the pistol strapped to his waistband. His fingers grazed the wooden grip, but he stilled, addressing the drunk again.

"This way, there can be no cheating and no doubt as to the result." He knew that would gain the man's attention. He hated being cheated against. Mark raised a brow, recognizing the irony.

"Well, then, tell me what this idea is! Let's have at it!" He gestured enthusiastically, ready for whatever challenge Mark had prepared for him. Feeling a rush of satisfaction, Mark pulled the gun free, which was prepared beforehand precisely so no bullet would fire. He pointed it straight at William, and before his drunken reflexes could decipher what was happening, he'd already cocked back the hammer and was aiming it at his forehead.

There was a stale _click_ as the hammer hit against the empty chamber, the air around the two men growing deathly still. William's eyes had widened, and he flinched with the expectation of being shot. The bottle of wine had slipped from his fingers, shattering on the stone floor between them. When nothing began to hurt from a bullet wound, he took several shuddering breaths and a few paces backwards, staring at Mark with a mixture of astonishment and rising anger. The shock of what had developed left him speechless.

Mark held his hands up in mock surrender, pistol still in his right hand, laughing good-naturedly. "See, my friend? All is forgiven. The money, stealing my wife from me…everything." He stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on William's shoulder. "A rousing game of Russian Roulette was all we needed to resolve this. After all, if fate had wanted you dead this night, you would be."

The Colonel opened and closed his mouth several times, bewilderment snatching all the words he wanted to say before he could say them. Laughing again, Mark wandered over to the wine rack and placed the pistol on it. Holding it up to inspect the open chamber, he showed off the single bullet loaded into it, before shielding it with his body. While he waited for William to speak, Mark snatched the rest of the bullets in the pocket of his robe and loaded the rest of the chambers up, snapping it shut afterwards. With his luck, the Colonel would think it still only contained a single bullet.

Finally, the shock wore off enough for the drunk to say something. "You were going to shoot me!" He cried with indignation, and Mark felt himself being pulled by the neck of his robe, whirled to face the drunken man before him. "You were going to kill me!"

"Relax, William." He said placatingly, slowly pulling the man's hands off his robe. "I've taken my shot, now you get to have yours. Fair is fair." Speaking slowly as if to a young child, he stepped back and reached for the same pistol he had just been holding. He dramatically spun the chamber, the metallic _whiz_ it gave the only sound in the room besides William's heavy breathing.

He reversed the gun in his hand, holding it by the barrel to offer to the drunken man. "Now, have at me, old friend. Let's be done with this business and chat afterwards over some fine brandy, shall we?"

Reluctantly, the distrust and anger slowly subsiding from the William's eyes, he took the gun being offered him. This game was familiar to him, he'd participated a dozen times before, and more than once, he'd also used it to settle disputes. Most of a more trivial nature, but if this was what Mark wanted to do, then so be it.

He himself spun the chamber, as Mark knew he would. He wasn't a man to let someone else decide fate's outcome with their own hands. He liked to do it himself, as he always had.

The host took a step back, giving space for William to aim the gun at his head. It wobbled and swayed in drunken grip, but this close, he was unlikely to miss regardless. The sound of William slowly cocking back the hammer was the only thing between them, and all Mark could do in that moment was smile.

_So it begins._

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**A/N- So many feels this story gave me. Mark is definitely a master storyteller, and I really want to see what he'll hit us with next. This series is dedicated to those who wanted ore than what we were given, and wanted to bring these amazing characters to life, to see them fleshed out and explored. I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.**


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